After Vengeance and Justice
by Psykic Ninja
Summary: A series of short stories set after the story 'A Game of Vengeance and Justice'. Heavy spoilers for that story if you haven't read it.
1. The Union of Peace 1

**Welcome back, all those curious about some of the events after A Game of Vengeance and Justice. If you haven't read that to the end, you will be spoiled and may not understand some of the things spoken about in the story. So unless you don't care about this, head of and check the main works out before continuing.**

 **So, I'll give a brief rundown of how this works. Each story will be relatively short, around five chapters, at least, that's the plan. There is no one POV for them all, each one will be told from the point of view of a different person, unless I come up with any more ideas where I re-use one. Currently I have planned out four short stories to tell. If you guys have anything you want to find out about Jasper's reign, please tell me, I'll see what I can do. As much as possible, I want to keep things going in chronological order, but if there's demand, I don't mind going back and retelling something that's already happened. Just bear in mind these stories will tell of events, they will cover days, weeks, maybe a month, but no more than that, so just keep that in mind if you have any requests, I can't tell you the story of something that's spread over the course of years, except by referencing it in these stories.**

 **At the beginning of each story I will give the date in AVJ (After Vengeance and Justice) just so you know how much time has passed between these ones, the main story, and each other.**

 **Okay, before my waffling on gets too of topic, here is story one:**

 **The Union of Peace - 13 AVJ**

* * *

The seamstresses seemed determined more than anything to get the dress perfect. Laena couldn't blame them, for tomorrow she would be ending the bad blood between House Targaryen and Baratheon as she, the only legitimate child of Aegon Targaryen, wedded Crown Prince Durran Baratheon, the heir of the Kingdom of Westeros.

The folds of silk, satin and Myrish lace draped off her slender form like water, weightless in the air. "Beautiful, my lady," the seamstresses said, stepping back and looking her up and down. She looked at her reflection and smiled. Without even the extensive jewellery and make up, even without the dress being finalised, even her own breath hitched at the sight of her. The colours of her house were plain, black and red complementing each other in perfect harmony from fold to fold, and stood at strong contrast to her skin, pale as the moon, with her arms covered only by a translucent shimmering silk, tinted in Targaryen colours, but leaving her upper limbs quite visible to the eye.

"Definitely," she turned her head as the Queen entered. The Seamstresses lowered their heads in respect to the Stark Queen. The Queen's own dress, black, gold and grey, a medley of her two houses, her silver tiara resting in her curls like a nesting bird. "My son will consider himself most fortunate to have such a wife".

Laena blushed. It was strange to think that she would finally be marrying Durran. All their lives they had been told that one day they would wed, that she would marry Durran, bear his children and, once King Jasper had passed on, she would be the queen. They had grown up like siblings, more than lovers, in the same castle, eating at the same table and protected by the same men. Yet despite all of this, the announcement had come as a shock. Six months previously, the King had announced that the wedding would take place, on the one year anniversary of the capture of Pentos and Durran's first taste of real battle. He had served as his father's squire in that attack on the east, and Laena had, as was expected, granted him a favour to wear in the battle. She had been surprised when he had come back with it intact. "Thank you, Queen Arya," she replied, bowing her head to her soon to be good mother.

Arya waved the title away, walking around her slowly, appreciating the beauty of her son's intended. "Is the jewellery picked out?" She asked.

Laena nodded. "Yes," she said, indicating to the desk where her vast array of rubies and gems and other precious stones were lain out, ready to be put on her.

"We just have a few final adjustments to make to the dress, Your Grace," one of the Seamstresses said.

The Queen nodded. "See to it then," she said. "Laena, when you are done here, I must speak with you, come to my chambers, please."

She bowed as the Queen exited the room. As the seamstresses dived back in, she wondered how stiff her joints would be when they were done.

It took some time for that to happen , the seamstresses intent on getting the dress exactly right for the wedding. The King was planning this to be a great event, meant to help mend the horrors of the war in which she'd been borne and King Jasper, with his marred face, could be quite the intimidating one if he wanted to be.

But eventually, she was, and, dressed in one of her normal dresses with no intricacy to it, and far looser on her body, she went to the Queen's solar.

Outside the door was one of the white plated Kingsguard, Ser Rolland, a greying warrior and veteran of the war, and still dangerous in battle. He opened the door for her when she approached, and she stepped through.

The Queen was not alone in her solar, also present were her husband, King Jasper, dressed in regal, yet functional clothes, and their daughter, Catelyn. They all looked at her when she entered. "Laena!" The young girl squealed, her black hair tied back as she rushed over and hugged her tightly.

Laena smiled and placed her hand gently on Cat's head, rubbing it softly. They had always been close, as the King and Queen's first daughter, she had helped them understand girls, and, with three older brothers, Cat had often come to her before them. "Hello, Cat," she replied. The girl looked up at her with wide blue eyes. She glanced at King Jasper's stern face. Whenever he pulled that face, that of the authoritative father, she knew he was in the middle of scolding them. It wouldn't do for her to interrupt that, he was Cat's father, and both of their King. "Cat," she said, gently prising the girl from around her. "I think your father wants to speak to you."

"Thank you, Laena," the King replied courteously. "Now, Cat," he beckoned her over and looked down at her imperiously when she shuffled over. "What did I say?"

"You don't want me behaving well during the festivities," she falsely mimicked.

"No," Jasper said. He knelt down before her so he was on her level. "Don't play the cheek with me, Cat, I said you _will_ behave well, or there will be trouble. Don't make me lock you in your chambers for your brother's wedding and tourney."

The young princess glanced at her mother, but the Queen also fixed her sternly. There were those who said that the Queen herself had been quite the wilful one in her youth, and to be sure, when the castle operated normally, the monarchs allowed a certain amount of freedom for Cat and her brothers. But now, with what seemed to be half the realm descending on the capital for the festivities, they were tightening the leashes on their children.

"I'll behave, father," Cat said finally. Jasper leant in and kissed her forehead, stroking her black hair.

"Good girl," he said. "Now run along, and no mischief."

She curtsied like the good princess she was ordered to be, and left the room. The king got to his feet again and poured out a cup of wine, holding it out to her. "Here," he said.

Tentatively, she took the cup and sipped at the deep red liquid. "Please," Arya said, indicating a chair. "Sit."

She did so, the two monarchs looking at her not unkindly. "I've said it many times," he said, pulling in a chair opposite her. "But these next few days are of great importance to me... to all of us. Finally the blood conflict of the past will be set aside... if things go to plan. If they fail, if there is any hiccup, then the cycle of blood between our houses could begin again. If you have any qualms about your upcoming marriage to my son, get them off your chest now, tomorrow must go smoothly."

"There are no qualms, my king," she said, staring him in the mismatched eyes, remembering how once they had haunted her, but now the red and blue were like two gems, a ruby and sapphire, in the king's face. "I have known my place for as long as I can remember. I will marry your son and do my duty by him, I swear it."

He stared into her eyes, judging his words, and nodded. "Very good," he said. "Then there are only a few more matters to discuss. You are aware that a... great many lords... will be attending these festivities?"

She nodded. She knew that well enough. Her father had told her that the King had invited every lord of note to the wedding and festivities. He wanted them all to see the union of Baratheon and Targaryen and be clear that the war was done, there was nothing left fighting for. He had also arranged a tourney afterwards, a grand event, larger than anything since the fateful tourney of Harrenhal, where Rhaegar Targaryen had planted the seeds for the end of his dynasty by crowning Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty. There would be a grand joust spread out over the course of a week to determine a champion, one in which he husband would be competing, despite his relative youth. A melee would be held as well, hundreds of knights competing to claim as many ransoms as they could, lords leading retinues in a glorious display of warfare, one force of warriors to represent each region of Westeros in a multi sided battle for money, glory and renown. Archery would have it's place as well, with targets being floated out on boats along the Rush for the archers to aim for. The there would be the less martial aspects, a tourney of singers, horse races, a grand mummer's show. Prizes were grand and glorious and aplenty. Looking out beyond the city, one could see a veritable silken town as lords and knights were in pavilions, and many of the tavern owners would be exceptionally rich, charging huge prices for their rooms. The King had issued a number of decrees fixing price for basic goods as well, so the commoners could still afford to eat. The grand lists had a grand stand around them, capable of seating thousands, but still leaving one side available for the commoners to observe the knightly pageantry, as well as smaller lists open to them completely, so that those knight vanquished in the first days could still compete if they wished to claim more ransoms. The only time she had seen more acclaim was when the king had returned from Pentos, his ships laden down with wealth, he and his son at the head of the victory parade, coming through the city. There were still some alive who remembered the tourney of Harrenhal, some thirty five years ago now, and the King was determined to outdo that famous tournament in splendour.

"Well," Jasper said. "Lord Edric Dayne will be arriving later today, and with him, your mother's family."

She knew that statement should have rung with her, but in truth it was exceptional only in it's irrelevance. She could barely remember her mother's face, having seen her only a few times, and only briefly. She was well aware she had been taken from them to prevent future rebellion by the Martells, and now that her mother's house had been reduced to mere Landed Knights, unable to even carry out justice on their lands without the permission of House Dayne, who's keep was at the far end of the Dornish peninsula, the ability for them to come to King's Landing was greatly hindered. It should have pained her, but her mother was more queer, more alien to her than her supposed captors. "I see," she said.

"I leave it to you and your father whether you meet with them or not, but I felt like you needed to be told. You deserved that". She was about to thank him but he held up a hand. "If you meet with the Martells," he added, "one of my White Swords shall go with you, I will not risk _anything_ disturbing this day."

She nodded. "I understand, my king," she said.

He nodded and turned away from her. "That will be all, Laena, thank you," Queen Arya said, far more gently. She understood though. These days had taken a lot of effort and money for the King to prepare, it was completely reasonable that they be invested in them going off without a hitch.

She left the royals to themselves and wondered what she would do for the rest of the day. Her father was busy, she knew that much, preparing for tomorrow, and her two half siblings were also occupied. Being the bastards they were, they would be hidden tomorrow for most of the festivities, but she hoped to see them before she joined her new house. If not, then afterwards. So she decided she would head for the courtyard.

Her intended seemed more intent on training for his tourney than he was on their marriage. He was riding his large brown destrier at a quintain when she found herself overlooking the courtyard. Directing him was Ser Balon Swann, the finest jouster in the Kingsguard. "Don't lower your lance so early," the knight chided his charge. Durran pulled up, his greathelm with iron antlers standing as a contrast to his golden surcoat, his black tinted armour made him look like a warrior of iron, an intimidating sight. Off to another side she saw his eldest brother, Arlan, born the year after the war, sparring in padded clothes and with wooden swords with Ormund Baratheon, the heir to Storm's End and the Hand of the King Stannis Baratheon. They had been at it for so long that both were red and puffy, and their attacks were simple, basic and crude. She cast her eyes around for the third of the King's children and saw him off to one side. Durran was sixteen and Arlan fourteen, but the process of trying to hold the realm together had kept the royals occupied, for Robert was only seven, a year older than Cat. At such a young age, Robert was only beginning his jousting training, walking at the quintain on foot to practice his aim.

She approached the young one. "Hello Robert," she said, smiling at him. "How are you doing?"

"Bad," Robert huffed dropping his lance in effort and annoyance.

She leant down and pinched his little cheeks, just to annoy him further. "Well then," she said. "Shall we watch your brothers?" His face lit up and he nodded, holding out his hand. Laena took it and led him up to oversee the entire courtyard, sitting him on the barrier, but holding him tightly so he didn't fall. Durran made several more passes at the quintain and Arlan and Ormund kept up their sparring, interrupted by the Master at Arms as he corrected them. "Durran rides well," she commented. She knew riding well was the most important part of jousting, almost more than lance work.

Robert nodded enthusiastically. "He's going to win the tourney," he said, firmly.

"I think he will too," she whispered in Robert's ear. She didn't. There would be hundreds if not thousands of knights at the tourney, one of them would surely unhorse her husband. But as long as he made a good showing of himself, he would be satisfied. Some would inevitably aim to lose when they were drawn up against the Crown Prince, but enough would be willing to take the risk and try to unseat him.

"That's enough, my prince," Ser Balon said, and Durran pulled his horse's reigns to halt it. "Too much practice and you'll wear yourself out, let it rest for now, you have prepared as much as you can".

Durran nodded, handed off his lance his squire and dismounted. When he pulled off his helm she saw the face of her soon-to-be husband. He lacked the softness that was still present on Arlan's features, battle in Pentos and training had chiselled his face into a hard image, light stubble decorating his jaw, his eyes blue and fierce. His hair grew out only a little, but enough for it to flutter in the breeze, the silver streak at the front a pleasant contrast to the midnight black on the rest of his head, and she knew that underneath his armour, his body was chiselled and lean, with a flat stomach as though carved from wood. And yet she struggled to find herself attracted to one she had known since childhood. Perhaps during the wedding... with the wine and happiness...

Durran caught sight of the two of them then, raising a hand to wave at them. He didn't seem concerned about the wedding in the slightest. She smiled and waved back with Robert, taking a deep breath to try and calm her nerves. Tomorrow would be a good day, she vowed. Of course it would. She would make it so.


	2. The Union of Peace 2

In some parts of Westeros, she knew, it was custom that gifts be given to the bride and groom alone at first, on the morning before the wedding. However that would not happen today, she would be breaking her fast with her father, alone, and she would receive her gifts alongside her new husband at the wedding feast.

She got up to eat with her father in simple morning clothes. She would change into her beautiful gown for the wedding afterward. "How are you feeling?" He asked her, taking her shaking hand in his own.

She tried to still herself. "Well, father, it is my wedding day."

"I know," he said. Her father still struck people with the beauty of the Dragonlords of old, the beauty that he had passed on to her. And yet he had no loyalty to that house of old.

"But father," she replied. "I cannot help but fear. After this day I will be a Baratheon, and you have no more legitimate children. What will happen to our family when you are gone?"

"It will fade," he replied immediately. "We have done our part for the world, but now our time is over. The Baratheons are the royal family now."

She knew that, she never doubted it. "I understand, father," she said.

"You will have one more role for our house to fulfil," he told her. "The Laena Targaryen that walks down to marry the crown prince will inspire a thousand songs, enough to blot out the pain of the last generations of our family. Let the last songs of the Targaryens be of your beauty and station as the future Queen of Westeros."

She nodded. As a Targaryen, this would be her final act. "Yes, father, I will do you proud."

"You already have," he replied.

Then the door opened and they turned to see the king enter. "It's time," he said. "Get ready, the lords of the realm are making their way to the Great Sept of Baelor."

He left before they could reply. Aegon took a drink and got to his feet. Laena pushed aside her plate of barely touched food and got up as well. Together they went to where she would be getting ready. "I'll leave you to it, sweetling," he said, leaning in to kiss her forehead gently. "I will get myself ready and meet you in the courtyard." She held her father's hand as long as possible until his fingers slipped from hers and she turned to find a dozen dressers ready with jewellery and the dress to make her the most beautiful bride Westeros had ever seen.

The dress itself was flawless in it's design, images of the maiden, flowers and dragons decorated it. It had been the king who had insisted on the dragon imagery, the realm needed to see the Targaryen family marry into his own. She knew there were more symbols of dragons on her Maiden's Cloak which would be put on at the end. There were rubies and garnets and black diamonds woven into the clasps and ties of the dress. Her necklace as well, had those three stones in a repeated pattern, and plunged low into her neckline, with a ruby at each wrist and woven into her hairnet as well. Her long hair was treated for what felt like hours until it had been shaped into a silver waterfall flowing down her shoulders and back. A silvery veil had been considered, but discarded since it didn't work with the colours of House Targaryen. She felt she would have welts and her spine would be curved by the weight of it all. A magnificent golden belt, woven with further jewels of red and black was pulled around her waist. Shimmering silks fell from her shoulders to cover her arms, translucent and smoky red, highlighted with black, like it had been artfully burned but strikingly beautiful.

When they stepped back, several of the dressers were in tears, and she couldn"t help but smile as she saw herself in the mirror. It was the most beautiful she had ever looked, and the whole realm was going to see it.

Her father was dressed in a midnight black and blood red doublet, a dragon sewn on the breast and the cloak that hung from his shoulders. "Wow," he said, jaw dropping slightly.

"Is something wrong, father?" She asked, not being able to help herself but tease him.

"I-I have the most beautiful daughter in the realm," he said, simply.

"You look amazing, Laena!" She turned at the familiar voice. Cat was dressed in a child's gown of pure beaten gold, her hair flowing in tresses down her back and a silver pendant around her neck.

"What are you doing?" She asked her soon to be sister.

"When we arrive, I am to carry your train," she said, smiling. Laena felt glad for that. She wouldn't be wearing it for long, but she'd hate for her Maiden's cloak to get dirty.

"Shall we go," her father said, offering his arm to her. "I doubt the lords and knights who have come to see this will be happy if we keep them waiting for long." She nodded and took her father's arm with her own and they approached their carriage. It was open topped to allow the people of the city to see her as she passed by. It was also tall, raising her higher than a standing man. Which made sense, two dozen men at arms of the Order were ready to march alongside her carriage, just in case the crowd broke through the city watch and swarmed them. They would see her enter the sept a Targaryen, and leave a Baratheon, with her husband at her side.

They lined the streets in a mass that she had never seen before. When the King and Durran had returned with the spoils from Pentos, they had come out to cheer, but this many... it was no wonder the king had doubled the size of the city watch for the occasion. Cat sat opposite her in the carriage, and looked around in wonder as they passed through the streets, knowing her part, she waved to them as well, and so did her father, but the smiling, there was no need to force it, she couldn't hold it back if she wanted to. Those who had climbed onto roofs to better see her were throwing flowers at them, many landing in the carriage, and the watchmen who lined the streets to hold them back turned their heads as she passed. The men at arms clutched their polearms tightly as they marched alongside her carriage, watching for activity.

They wound along the streets slowly, the cobbles scrubbed clean for the occasion, no smell of shit today, nothing would spoil this day for them, nothing. She heard them cheer words of encouragement and support to her among the simple cries of pleasure and cheers of seeing her on this day.

When they reached the sept more men of the city watch and men at arms of the order were lining the bottom of them, preventing the rabble from getting any closer. But up the long line of the steps were the nobles and knights who had neither the prestige nor the rank to be in the sept to witness the wedding itself. They were more respectful than the peasants, bowing their heads in respect, she saw jaws drop at the sight of her in her wedding gown, without glancing around she could feel that Cat was carrying the train of her Maiden's Cloak perfectly.

The screams only died down to her ears when they entered the vast, vaulted sept itself. These were the greater lords and most renowned knights, she knew, as she looked around. She saw the greater houses of the nine regions of Westeros proudly bearing their sigils on their chests and watching as she passed. As they got closer to the altars of the father and the mother, she was able to see men staring at her like fools, even with their wives right next to them, women teared up at the sight of her and children could barely contain their excitement at what was to happen. The lords and families they came across became more recognisable as they got closer. The highest ranked knights of the Order stood solemnly, heads bowed, antler broaches holding on their black cloaks. Opposite them stood the greatest Justiciars in the realm, many of whom, she knew, had once been Inquisitors. Then came the Lords Paramount: Baelor Blacktyde and his family, his powerful sons, all knights, all silent, looking more like Greenlanders than the Ironmen of days long past. Lady Shireen Baratheon, her scarred face was not an attractive sight, but she was the Lady of Highgarden, her husband Ser Arys Oakheart, a strong knight, like his uncle and namesake, the only member of False King Joffrey's Kingsguard who retained his cloak when King Jasper reformed the order upon his coronation. Arys may have been the husband, but his wife was his lady, and their two children were of her house. Then was Lord Edric Dayne, and she could not help but look to him again, Lord Paramount of Dorne, the Sword of the Morning, hero of the Battle of the Brimstone, when he had overcome a host three times his number, and first over the walls of Pentos. He had the beauty of the Dragonlords of Old Valyria and was enough of a draw for any maiden. However, he was already married, his wife, of House Yronwood, a woman of blonde hair and blue eyes, smiled at her, blessed in her fortune of marriage, with both her husband and her young son. They were a new Dorne, not cursed with the colours of the Rhoyne, but with the beauty of the rest of the west. Lord Edmure Tully was next, his large family around him, his auburn hair flecked with grey, but showed the epitome of respect to her as she passed, not leering at all. Lord Tywin Lannister was still standing strong at seventy one, his grandson and heir, Tommen, at his side. Ser Tommen had the beauty of the Lannisters, curly golden hair and bright green eyes, with none of his grandfather's reputation. His beauty, his charm and that his brother was the king, made people just able to overlook the sin of his birth. Lord Harrold Arryn, still a maiden's fantasy, though not like Lord Edric, was proud and regal, his wife, and sister of the Queen, at his side, their children beside them. Lord Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, his wife to one side of him, his two sons and two daughters in front of him, the epitome of noble grace. She knew his Direwolf was in the city, but not in the Sept, such a thing would be improper. He bowed his head to her as she passed. Lord Stannis Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands, father of the Lady of Highgarden and Hand of the King, twice Protector of the Realm, the King's mentor in his youth and a man who's hair was more grey than black. His face was lined and craggy, but still strong as iron and a power to be reckoned with. He headed the Small Council, who came next. Master of Coin Theodan Mooton; Master of Laws, Lord Bryce Caron; Master of Ships Lord Davos Seaworth, the aging former smuggler; Master of Whisperers Marlon Pyle, who was watching everything with his hawk like eyes; Grand Maester Varwyn, the former Maester of the King who had acted as the Grand Maester for years before he got the official title. Then was the royal family. King Jasper looked more regal than she had ever seen him, in flowing robes of gold and black, his golden crown resting in his black curls, in the light it was possible to forget the greying that had begun on the King. His wife was beside him, the colours of the House of her marriage and the House of her birth all clear about her person, and woven intricately into her dress. Arlan and Robert, both dressed like Cat, were in front of them, Robert itchy at standing still, but Arlan staring at her, jaw dropped low, before the queen gently reached over and closed it.

As she ascended the steps, she found herself looking into the eyes of her husband. He was the only one in the room who could appeal to maidens more than Edric Dayne, with the sea blue eyes and midnight hair of his father, defined in his clothes of gold and black, the silver streak in his hair like the moon glancing off a wave at night. His body lean and muscled like a maiden's fantasy from his hours with sword and lance and horse, his face was defined and strong, the softness of youth melted away. He was staring at her like he was the luckiest person in the world, a heavy cloak of gold held loosely in his grip, ready to be wrapped around her shoulders. She looked up into his eyes and smiled sweetly.

They said the words they had both been practicing for six months. They swore the seven vows, received the seven blessing and made the seven promises. Then her father stepped up behind her, reached around, and undid the clasp in the shape of the three headed dragon, and took the maiden"s cloak from her shoulders. She turned and bowed her head forward. Durran stepped up and wrapped the heavy golden cloak around her shoulders, taking her into his house and under his protection.

She turned to him once he had fastened it at her throat. "With this kiss," Durran declared in ringing tones, "I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife!"

"With this kiss," she echoed, "I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband!" Durran leant down and pressed the softest of kisses to her lips. She reached up to cup his cheek as she returned the kiss. The High Septon announced that Durran of the House Baratheon and Laena of the House Targaryen were one heart, one flesh and one soul to the cheering celebrations of the lords and ladies and knights of the realm.

They turned to the assembled lords and ladies who applauded them loudly. Durran took her hand in his and raised it high in union. They led the procession out of the sept, Laena knowing that only half the work was done, there was still the huge feast to come, and then the bedding...

They rode back to the Red Keep in the carriage that had brought her. She was cloaked as a Baratheon now, her new house. She and Durran kept their hands linked, to let the people see that they were one now, waving to the commoners as they passed, more petals raining from the sky into the carriage and onto them. The people were cheering harder than when she had gone to the sept before the ceremony, perhaps because their future king and queen were now together in front of them. When they arrived at the keep, Durran called out. "Stop us here." The driver pulled the wagon to a stop before they entered the keep. "Well then, wife," Durran said with a grin. "Shall we give the people what they want to see?"

Laena couldn't help but smile and nod. Durran, ever the gracious groom, helped her down from the carriage and to the base of the drawbridge. A thin line of the order's men at arms were keeping the commoners from getting too close. They waved to them for a bit, smiling widely as they did. Then they turned to each other. "Shall we?" Durran asked.

"Of course, husband," she replied. He leant down and kissed her again. She endured the awkward feeling, letting the crowd get their fill, before Durran pulled away. "Let's go," he said, speaking as the prince she had always known him as. He held out an arm. "We have to get ready to receive _a lot_ of guests at the feast."

She nodded, her belly crawling. She had thought the ceremony was bad enough, but if she had to receive gifts and congratulations from all of them... She took a breath, she would do her duty, and do it well. Every guest would know that one day she would be a good and gracious queen one day, and would remember this wedding as the joyous event that it was.


	3. The Union of Peace 3

Not wanting to ruin the wedding gown, she was changed into another one, lighter, airier, more flowing. Most of her jewels came off as well, before too many welts could be left in her skin, she wore smaller ones instead, ones that didn't hinder her so much, but still reflected her old house. Although there was now gold interlaced with the red and black, a sign of her new allegiance.

She was thankful that she and Durran had come back first, it gave her a little time to prepare herself. But it was all too quickly before she met her husband again. Durran had also changed out of his wedding clothes, into formal and regal attire more suited to eating in. It was strange to think that they were man and wife now. The boy she had known all her life, grown up with, played with, laughed with, practiced kissing with, was now her husband. She hoped she would get used to it before the bedding.

"Are you okay?" He whispered to her, when she got close. He didn't seem entirely at peace with this either.

She nodded. "I am... or I will be. We both know what has to be done."

"We do," Durran agreed. "Well then. Shall we go and be the centre of attention?"

She took his arm and he led her out of the castle. The feast was originally going to be held in the Red Keep itself, but it was too small, could not house enough of the guests who had arrived, and this was an event to be seen, not hidden behind red brick walls. So it was to be held out in the open instead. It had been decreed that, if the sky was clear when the ceremony took place, then the feast would take place on the Hill of the First Men, out in the open where more people could be seated. Once more she got into her carriage and once more she smiled and waved at the commoners as they were carried through the streets to the great green space that the king had had made atop the hill upon which once stood the Dragonpit. Already many guests were present, having taken less time to change than the two of them. Once more it was ranked, the closer you were to the high table, the higher your rank or importance. The high table itself was reserved for them, the Royal Family, and her own family. Normally the king and queen would sit at the high seats, but this time they were to Durran's right, as he took the King's chair, and she, the Queen's. They waited patiently for everyone they could see to be present and then sat down, upon which everyone else sat down as well.

Normal custom would dictate that all the gifts be given at once, at the beginning of the feast, by one lord after the other. However there were so many lords, and the food had been brought out already, so, to prevent it going cold or otherwise ruined, the feast was to begin at once. Despite not sitting in the centre of the table, the King was still the centre of power. This was the man who had ripped the wealth from Pentos as recompense for the damage that harbouring exiles had wrought on his realm, the man who had pulled down the Hellholt when they refused to bend, the one who had ripped the fangs from the Ironmen and won the most destructive war in living memory. When he spoke, men listened. "Let the cups be emptied," he called. "And let bellies be filled. Today is a good day, let it be filled with joy, and merriment and song. To the newlyweds!"

"The newlyweds!"

"Prince Durran and Lady Laena!"

"Baratheon and Targaryen!"

She smiled sheepishly as hundreds of voices cheered her and her new husband.

The first course of many was lain before them, simple soups made from mushrooms and leeks and other vegetables, a simple appetizer for the seventy six courses that were yet to follow.

Already, lords and ladies were approaching them, the Lords Paramount first of all. "My congratulations," Lord Stannis said, stiffly. "I wish you a long and happy marriage." He sounded like he was saying the words with a knife to his throat. For all his skills in battle and administration, Stannis Baratheon was never good with people. But they thanked him none the less. For his gifts, Lord Stannis provided a great tourney pavilion for her husband, and a riding saddle for her, made of the softest materials she had felt in a saddle. He stepped aside and returned to his position as swiftly as he seemingly could.

Next came the Queen's brother. The valiant warrior men called the Young Wolf. "My Prince, my Lady," he said, bowing as he approached. "You have been blessed with such a fine day for your wedding, I hope it is a sign of good days to come for you."

"Thank, you, Lord Robb," she said. "I hope your journey here was pleasant."

"As could ever be expected, my lady," he replied, with the utmost courtesy.

She took the opportunity to have some more food as Lord Robb commented on Durran's growth, and her husband asked how Lord Robb's eldest, Ned, was doing. Then his servants brought his gifts in; a dozen great cloaks, thicker than any she had ever seen, lined with soft, warm fur. "For the cold winters that are to come," he told them. "May they bring you warmth and comfort in that time."

"Thank you, Lord Robb," she replied, breathlessly. They were beautiful, in a variety of colours, and softer than anything she'd ever felt. She almost wanted to wrap them around herself now, to see what they felt like. But that could wait. Servants took these away and Robb bowed before returning to his wife and family.

Then came the King's cousin, lady Shireen. The Lady of Highgarden approached alone, her husband remaining behind. "Cousin, my lady," she said, bowing her head. "Today was beautiful, I wish you a good and happy life."

"Thank you, Shireen," she replied, reaching out and touching her hand, smiling at her.

"Yes, thank you cousin," Durran replied, smiling at her. Then Shireen turned and beckoned. Down between the tables came two great white horses, a mare and a huge destrier, noble and regal, Laena couldn't help but gasp at their beauty.

"The finest horse bred in the Reach for many a year," Shireen informed them.

"I... thank you," Durran gasped. "I shall treat him perfectly."

"And I mine," she assured Shireen. "Thank you, Shireen." Grooms arrived to take the horses off to the royal stables.

The Other Lords Paramount followed. Lord Edmure provided them several great tapestries of hunting scenes, romantic tales of knights and maidens and more; Lord Edric captured her breath when he approached, provided two great books with beautiful illustrations, _The Greatest Knights_ for her husband, and _Queens and Princesses_ for her. Lord Harold brought a great kite shield for Durran, with the Baratheon coat of arms on it, and beautiful silver bracelets and necklaces for her. Lord Baelor brought many religious symbols and pendants for them both. Lord Tywin Lannister had them each made a great goblet, two feet tall and jewelled with representations of all the great houses of Westeros. The only difference was that on hers, the largest was the ruby dragon, on his the largest was the onyx stag.

"Not nearly done yet," Durran whispered, leaning in to her and disguising the whisper with a kiss on the cheek. "Here come the rest."

"You can face these men in the lists in a few days," she whispered back, bringing her hand up to stroke his hard jaw line. "But here is a problem for you?"

He squirmed in his chair. "I hate sitting down too long," he replied.

"Well, eventually we'll be gone," she replied, her own cheeks flushing at the thought.

Durran reached out and took her fingers in his own. "If you're at all uncomfortable, we could always ask father to dispense with the bedding."

"No," she replied quickly. She wouldn't be a coward in front of Everyone. "It's okay, I always knew it would happen."

"I know you're nervous," he said. "It's okay, I am too."

"Please," she looked him in his sea blue eyes. "I know you won't be going into the unknown tonight."

Durran didn't look ashamed, he never did. Always strong, always brave, always eager. His father sometimes complained that he lacked the patience for kingship, but believed that would come in time. "Well," he said. "I'll try to be as gentle as possible."

Eager to be away from the topic of her bedding, she nodded at the approaching lords. "It seems we have to greet more lords and ladies."

His fingers gripped hers. "Together," he replied. "My future queen."

They met with lords from all over Westeros now. Lord Wylis Manderly, Lord Addam Marbrand, Lord Dickon Tarly, young Lord Ronnet Bolton, Lord Lyonel Corbray, Lord Andar Royce all came courteously and offered their own small gifts. Lord Brynden Blackwood and Lady Barbara Bracken looked daggers at each other, but their liege Lord Edmure Tully seemed able to move them on without a quarrel. Lord Davos told them that a ship, recently built on Dragonstone, would be waiting for them at the harbour when the tourney ended. Knights and lords continued to come throughout the day to offer their own congratulations. It wasn't supposed to be, but she could tell that some lords were offering more to her and others more to her husband. Their marriage was supposed to put that feud to rest once and for all.

Eventually they got through two courses of the feast without being interrupted by some lord or other, allowing them to sit back and enjoy the singers, mummers and other entertainers that the king had provided. They were able to laugh together, as they had when they were children, and thoughts of being naked together were lost.

Then, as the sun was setting, the king got to his feet and the guests began to go silent. He beckoned a servant, who carried an intricately carved wooden box over to him.

"My son," he said, facing him from the other side of the table. "Good daughter. I have watched you both grow up from babes in arms to the fine people you are now. Durran. You have not always been the best son. You have been arrogant, as only a prince can be, stubborn, sometimes a little slow and always stubborn. But I wouldn't change any of you if I were offered the world."

She felt Durran's grip tighten, she knew he always relished his father's praise.

"Laena. You have grown into quite the beauty, and my son is fortunate to be marrying you. Your House has produced more than it's share of failures and madmen. But I see nothing of that in you. You have only the best qualities of your father and all those who came before him." He looked between them both, giving a rare smile. "I believe all that is needed now is for you to learn how to rule yourselves. So, for that reason..." he opened the box and pulled out a long piece of vellum and passed it to his son.

Durran took it breathlessly, looking to his father who nodded. He broke the royal seal and unfurled it. His eyes widened. She looked over his shoulder and her eyes widened as well. "Father," Durran whispered. "Truly?"

He nodded. "Yes. From now, until after you become king and choose to give it to another. You are granted Lordship of the island of Tarth, and all it's associate rights, incomes, taxes and duties, that you might experience some level of lordship before coming to rule alone."

"I-I... thank you, father," he said, earnestly.

"You're ready," Jasper replied. "But for now, put it back in the box."

"Why?" Durran asked, holding it closer, like a child with a toy.

Jasper leant closer. "Because I am your father and your king, and I say so, boy," he said sternly, making Durran hand back the vellum, which Jasper returned to the box. "For now, however," he said, raising his voice and turning back to his lords and ladies. "The hour grows late. This has been rather a splendid day, a beautiful ceremony and a wonderful feast and celebration. But now... the newlyweds have one more task to perform." Laena felt her face begin to flush. "Let's get these two back to the Red Keep, they've been wedded, now they have to be bedded."

The cheers that rose were almost as loud as they had been when she and Durran had kissed, sealing the union of Baratheon and Targaryen in front of the people of King's Landing. Durran held out his hand and escorted her to the carriage. They would not be stripped by the whole population of King's Landing, or in front of them, that would start when they entered the Red Keep.

The lords, knights and ladies followed them in their own carriages, wheelhouses and horses, many eager to be a part of this. Although she saw King Jasper return to his seat, and many others, including Lord Seaworth, Lord Stannis and Lady Shireen remained behind, smiling as the newlyweds were taken away by the surging people.

Durran squeezed her hand gently as the carriage headed back to the Red Keep. She knew that servants would be gathering the remains of the food to be given out among the people lining the streets, that they might in some way experience the largest, grandest and most important wedding in living memory. "Good luck," he whispered as the carriage arrived in the Red Keep's courtyard. The sun was all but set, the orange glow lighting them up in an amber sheen.

"You too," she replied as they got out on opposite sides of the carriage. Immediately she felt a dozen large hands seize her and carry her along, her feet not touching the ground as they were carried inside. A glance showed her that Durran was not being carried, but many women were indeed pulling at his clothes. He seemed to be enjoying himself somewhat, grinning at the many noble ladies who were undressing him. _Savour it_ , she thought, _this is the only night you'll get to see him like this. He's mine. From now on, he'll only be your prince, and one day your king._ She felt a hand ghost over her breast and smacked it away as the laces were loosened and the dress pulled off, leaving her in her smallclothes. As they moved down corridors, following the men of the Order who were lining the way to their bedchamber, she felt her smallclothes getting looser and looser. Durran's tunic was being passed back among the women, who were trying to touch it, since not all of them could get to her husband's body.

Her smallclothes were torn away to cheers of the men, who were memorising every line of her body as they reached the door to the chambers and bundled the two of them in, both completely naked. The doors were shut, only slightly muffling the sounds of the men outside, and it was the men, calling suggestions through the door.

She turned to Durran only to have him seize her and push her against the door. She gasped with pain as her back slammed into the hard wood. Before she could so much as think, Durran's lips were at her neck, kissing it softly, licking and nipping as well. His good luck Elenei carving pressed against her breast, it seemed he wasn't willing to let that go to the women outside. "What?" She gasped at him as he pulled her leg up. She knew what to do next, and pushed off with her right leg, wrapping it around his waist.

He carried her across to the bed and lay her on it, climbing on top of her, and gazing into her eyes. "Gods," he whispered. "You're beautiful... I need you..."

"I-" she was cut off as he kissed her again, slipping his tongue past her lips. Tentatively she pushed back with her own. "Durran I-"

He pulled his carved good luck charm that had once belonged to his father and tossed it on a nearby table. "I have a new charm," he whispered, leaning down and kissing her again. Her breasts pressing against his muscled chest. She leant in to his kiss, bringing her arms up and wrapping them around him. She stroked the back of his head and his soft black hair with her left hand, her right running over the rippling muscles of his shoulders. In that moment, as he was above her, midnight curtains framing his face, she could see the beauty of his features and could feel herself getting wet between her legs. "Are you ready?" He asked her.

She took a breath and nodded.

He entered her with a sharp pain, slipping inside her sheath with a gentle motion and making her gasp. "I'll be slow," he said, moving his hips gently. As the pain became discomfort she tried to match his rhythm with her hips and the pleasure began to stir within her. He began to speed up and she lost her rhythm. Deciding against trying to keep up, she let her body go limp as he pumped into her, faster and faster. He lifted his head up from her neck, sweat trickling down his face and let out a loud groan to the cheers of the men outside. She felt him spill himself inside her and gasped at the queer feeling.

He fell forwards on top of her, his arm muscles tensing to keep him from crushing her as he caught his breath. She turned her head and kissed his cheek softly. He slipped out of her and rolled off to one side so they were both looking up at the canopy of the bed. "That was..." He began. _Awkward_ , she thought, but didn't say. The Queen had told her that the first time likely would be, but that she could ruin her marriage forever if she said so. She simply leant down and pulled the sheets up over herself. Durran complied and slipped his legs underneath as well. "We must do that again."

"Not tonight," she told him. She felt the drowsiness of everything catching up to her. "Another time. We have a lifetime ahead of us, husband, let me sleep tonight."

He placed his arm over her hip possessively. "Very well, wife. Not tonight. But after I win the tourney... then..."

"Yes," she whispered, turning on her side. She wanted to throw the arm off her, she didn"t like too much weight on her. But she shouldn't offend Durran, and he was her lord and husband now. It was her duty to serve and obey him, and if he wanted to hold her as his, that was his right. She closed her eyes and waited for sleep to overcome her, thoughts of married life drifting from her mind as she thought of the tourney tomorrow and the magnificent display of pageantry that was to come. She couldn't wait to see it.


	4. The Union of Peace 4

She awoke early the next day to find Durran already sitting at the foot of the bed. She held the sheets up to her chest as she sat up and watched him. He turned to her with a smile. "You're awake," he said.

She nodded, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "I... I am," she said, yawning. He crawled back over to her and smiled.

"So," he asked, looking at her inquisitively. "How does it feel to be married to me?"

She thought about her answer long and hard before replying. "Normal," she said. "No great sense of belonging, no candle has revealed all of the truth to me. I was always meant to be your wife, and now I am. What else is there?"

"Nothing," Durran conceded. "Nothing at all."

"Thank you, though," she added, fearing that she may have insulted him.

Durran raised an eyebrow. "What for?"

"Making it easy on me... painless."

He smiled. "Always."

"What about you?" Laena asked before it became an awkward silence. "How does it feel to be married to me?"

He seemed to think it over a little, but she could tell he knew what he was going to say. "Nice," he said. "Like I've been waiting for it my whole life."

"You have been," Laena pointed out.

He laughed. "True," he said. "Very true, wife. Will you be like this when we come into my lordship?"

That was the best moment of the previous day to him. The moment when he had finally been granted lands of his own to administer. He had been waiting for it for a long time. When the celebrations of the victory at Pentos had calmed, he had asked his father for some land of his own. The king had flatly refused. The argument had gone quite out of control. The king had threatened to make Durran a half-brother of the Night's Watch if he wasn't careful. Then in his arrogance, Durran had challenged his father to single combat. It hadn't been a challenge. The king was a warrior in his prime, a veteran of several wars and more battles than Durran had fingers. She had watched it with much of the castle. King Jasper had drawn the battle out only to highlight every flaw in Durran's techniques before driving him to the ground and making his son yield. The two were close, and the relationship healed with a few months of time, but still, Durran had been completely humbled that day.

"We probably shouldn't stay here too long."

Durran gave a fake gasp. "You're right. Husband and wife, locked in their chambers the day after their wedding, what scandal!"

She couldn't help but let a smile grace her features. But Durran was a kind one. He called out for breakfast to be brought to them.

They dressed into simple folded robes as servants brought in simple breakfasts for them. "Are you ready?" She asked him.

"Ready?" He asked.

"For the tourney. It begins today doesn't it?"

Durran nodded. "It does, but not the joust. Today is the grand melee."

"When does the joust begin, then?" Laena asked, confused.

"In three days," Durran said. "Today is the grand melee. Father would have wanted me to compete, it is far better training for war than the joust, but..."

"But this tourney is for symbol politics, not training," Laena finished for him.

He raised his glass. "Tomorrow is the archery, the day after will be the tourney of singers, mummers and other performers, with the best performing at the end of the tourney. Then the joust begins, and it runs for a whole week."

"Ah," she said, returning to her food. "But if you aren't competing in the melee? Will your father be leading the knights of the Crownlands?"

Durran shook his head. "No, the Dragonslayer will be leading my father's knights in the field today. My father needs to be able to see these celebrations through, he can't risk an injury in the melee. But he will be in the joust as well."

She nodded. Beric the Dragonslayer leading the King's knights would be a sight to see. "When does the melee begin?" She asked.

"This afternoon," Durran told her. "Father is holding court this morning, given that the joust may take too much of his time to do so."

Normally Durran was there with him, sat in one of the small thrones at the base of the royal seat, but today he was being allowed time to sleep in, allow the newlyweds this morning together. "I must go and see to my new horse," Durran said when they were done.

"You intend to ride Shireen's gift in the tourney?"

"Of course," he replied with a smile. "It would be an insult not to ride such a fine mount."

She nodded. "Of course, Durran, be well."

After he had left she spent a little time finishing her own breakfast before her handmaidens were called in to help her dress. She chose something far less ostentatious today, simple comfortable fabrics in Baratheon colours, her new allegiance.

She hoped to find her siblings today, given that she hadn't seen them the other day. Her brother, Oswell and sister Leonette were close. Oswell served as father's squire, and Leonette was one of her handmaidens, a noble companion of hers. But for the wedding, they had been kept out of sight, bastards couldn't be seen to be in such a place of prominence, but her father had assured her that they would see her married and enjoy in some of the festivities.

She found them out in the godswood. Her sister, Leonette, a girl of ten, had their father's colouring, and she could see the beauty she would grow into already. Oswell was instead a boy who had his mother's simple features and hair. Their mother was sat with them. Normally Alys and her children had a manse just outside the city but they had been brought inside for the time of the tourney and wedding. Alys was dressed better than any common girl normally would be, but she never flaunted herself, never overstepped her position as Aegon Targaryen's lover, devoting herself to her children and partner.

"Laena!" Leonette squeeled, rushing over. She smiled, bent down and picked the girl up, swinging her around before putting her down again. "You looked so beautiful yesterday!"

"Why thank you, sister," she replied. "And you look beautiful today." Leonette blushed. Oswell was less eager than his sister. The ten year old stayed by the trees with his mother. "You as well, Oswell."

"Shut up!" Oswell replied angrily. "I am not meant to be beautiful, I will be a knight one day, I'm meant to be strong, I-"

"Oswell!" His mother interrupted. "Your sister didn't mean to do you insult. Apologise to her. Now."

He grumbled but looked at Laena. "Sorry," he muttered. Leonette loved her dresses and colours, Oswell more cared that he didn't have his father's house"s name. He was a bastard, and he hated it.

"It's fine," she said, joining them at the great oak tree. Not wanting to upset her brother more by dwelling on the topic, she asked. "So what are you doing here?"

"We were listening to Cassie," Leonette explained. "She was telling us about Pentos."

"Cass?" Laena asked.

"Yes, me," Cass said, making Laena's heart leap into her throat as she dropped from the tree where she had been waiting silently.

The King's eldest child would not be welcome at most high tables. Her coal black hair was cut close to her skull, and piercing blue eyes held a mirth and lusty nature unbecoming of a noble girl. She eschewed silks and dresses for leathers and her arms. Her sword was at her hip and her bow and arrows hanging from a nearby branch. Unlike Oswell, she embraced her bastard nature. "Laena," she bowed at the waist grinning.

"Cass," she replied, letting her heart beat settle. "It's good to see you."

"You too," she replied, hugging Laena tightly. "I hear we're sisters now." She kissed Laena's cheek softly.

"We are," Laena confirmed. "But I didn't see you yesterday."

"I saw you though," Cass replied. "Your sister is right. You were truly beautiful."

"Thank you," she replied smiling. "But what have you been doing. More than skulking around I trust?"

Cass mocked offence. "I never skulk," she replied. "What do you take me for, a rodent?"

"A squirrel, perhaps," Alys quipped from the side.

Cassanna turned to her and pointed, but couldn't find the words to accompany the finger. "Anyway," she finally said, turning back to Laena. "Father wanted me to tell you to spend some time with your family, but then come to the throne room. He wants you to be part of his entourage as they head to the tourney field."

"I see," Laena said. "Thank you."

Cass nodded, retrieving her bow. "Where is my brother?" She asked. "Father wanted me to tell him that as well."

"He went to try out his new horse," Laena told her.

"I see," Cass said. "Thank you, and congratulations... sister."

As the king's bastard headed off unashamed at her appearance, Laena turned to her siblings. "Will you two be coming to watch the tourney with us?"

"They will be," Alys assured her. "Aegon has spoken to the king, Oswell and Leonette are permitted to join you in the royal box, and I will sit just off to the side."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I'll speak with the king. You are my siblings" mother. You should be with them."

"There" no need-" Alys began.

Laena took her hand. "I am his daughter now. I should be able to sway him a little. You will be with your children."

Alys smiled back. "Thank you," she whispered.

She had married the King's son, he could grant her this. Alys would do no harm to them. The focus would be on her, the king, Durran and the Queen, the rest would be forgotten. If she was going to be queen some day, she had best learn how to exert herself.

After spending some time with the three of them, she headed to the Throne Room.

Court was crowded. King Jasper sat on the Eightstone throne, looking down on the room. At his feet were Hand of the King Stannis Baratheon and, in place of Durran, his Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Beric the Dragonslayer. The council sat at the base of the throne, on a table set out for them. The rest of the Kingsguard stood around the base o the throne, men at arms of the order lined the hall, a force of Gold Cloaks manned the door and kept the petitioners in check, and the lords and petitioners stood around the outside of the room. She silently moved up to the front, spotting the coal black hair and leathers of Cass and standing beside her. "How's it going?" She whispered.

"Well enough," Cass replied. "They're done with the petitioners, not much there, mostly lords and merchants complaining about prices. Father just had to explain how things would run throughout this tourney, and they shut up for the most part. But now they're dealing with the affairs of the city watch. They should be done soon, I hope."

"Lord Bryce," the King called to his Master of Laws. "Bring in the last case of the city watch today."

Lord Bryce nodded and beckoned. Two women were dragged forwards by the gold cloaks. One was a willowy youth of no more than fourteen, with curly blonde hair. A beauty to be sure, but common born as well, one look at her clothes could say that. The other, a much chunkier woman, could only be her mother with the resemblance in their faces. One look would also tell you they hated each other. "Your grace, this is Lynda and Emma," he said, indicating the mother and daughter. "Lynda is the mother of Emma, and a serving woman at the Clipped Rose tavern. Last night a man attempted to take Emma up to one of the rooms and had his way with her. He claimed that he had paid a gold dragon for her maidenhead. A gold dragon he paid to Lynda."

The king nodded slowly as murmurs spread around the court. "Ser Marlon," the king called to his Master of Whisperers. "You know anything of this?"

Ser Marlon nodded slowly. "Aye, Your Grace. It would seem that Lynda has been making this known since the great and rich started taking up the rooms in the taverns of the city."

The king nodded. "Is this true?" He asked Emma. She looked at her mother, angry, and nodded. "Say the words please." The king said.

"She... she did try to sell my maidenhead for a golden dragon, your grace," Emma said.

"Thank you," the king said, and turned his gaze to her mother. "And you. Do you have anything to say in the face of this testimony, and the evidence of this council? Bear in mind the penalty of lying to the king is great indeed."

Lynda shot a venomous look at her daughter. But when she looked up at the king, she saw only fear. Looking up at the king, sitting on his tall throne, like the very Father Above, could do that. She said nothing.

"Such activity like this is to be kept to the brothels." The king said clearly. "For trying to prostitute your daughter for personal gain, I sentence you to thirty lashes, to be administered immediately and in public, so all may know that this behaviour is not accepted in my city. You are also forbidden from retaliating against your daughter for coming forward about this matter. Lord Bryce will assign two gold cloaks to check in with the two of you, daily, to ensure that this is honoured. Emma, these goldcloaks will arrest you if you should try to usurp this protection to take further action against your mother, and you will be punished accordingly. Is this clear for the two of you?"

The two of them nodded.

"Lord Bryce, pick two men of good repute to oversee this. They are to keep each other honest, as well as these two."

"Of course, your grace," Lord Bryce replied.

The King nodded. "No more today," he said. "I would see the actions I have determined administered before the melee begins, and to have enough time for it to be done before nightfall, we shall have to start heading for the field soon. This session of court is adjourned."

The King descended the steps of the throne as the court dispersed. The council and clerks wrote up the final notes before closing books and gathering letters. Catching sight of the two of them, the king approached. "Daughters," he said by way of greeting. "Still trying to dress the man I see, Cass."

"Father, I could dress as a Wildling and you would still love me."

"Don't push that luck to far child," he reprimanded her. "I have limits."

Cass grinned and hugged her father quickly. "I know father."

He shook his head as he gently cuffed her around the side of the head, messing her hair a little. "Laena, are you ready for the tourney?"

"I am... good father. But I have a request."

"Oh?"

Laena nodded. "I want Alys to be allowed to join us in the Royal box."

"Alys? You want a lowborn to be seen with the royal family?"

She knew that would be his reason. "She won't be seen," Laena insisted. "The people will be looking at me, me and Durran, and you and the Queen, and your children. But Oswell and Leonette deserve to have their mother there."

"Come on father," Cass said. "Let the whelps have their mother there."

"Language, Cass," the King said.

"Father," she said, reaching out and touching her fathers arm. "I don't remember my mother. Or my brother." The King's eyes darkened briefly with sorrow. "I would give anything to see them, to know them. There is no need to take that from Laena, or her siblings."

"I'm hardly taking it away," he muttered. He looked at her. "Today is the melee." He said. "I will see how things go today. Prove to me that you will draw the eyes of everyone, and I will see about bringing her into the box for the joust." He rushed off himself, presumably to get ready for the Tourney.

Cass giggled like the girl she was. "Easy." Laena looked over at her quizzically. "Father always gave me what I wanted when I mentioned my mother and brother."

"That's a little heartless," Laena commented.

Cass shrugged. "I never knew them. Besides, father hardly mourns his mother, he put her to death himself."

"But she was an incestuous bitch," Laena commented. "A traitorous whore who brought death to Westeros." The King himself would be the first to admit that. If you wanted to get on his bad side, talk about his mother and her brothers.

"True. But my mother wasn't," Cass commented. "And I do wish I could have seen her, known her, and my twin as well. I didn't go all flutter-eyes on my father as a lie. Children should know their parents, both of their parents."

Laena patted her good-sister on the back. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"It's fine," Cass said. "How can I mourn those I don't remember. They say there is some magical connection between twins. That we feel when we are apart. If it's true, then I have felt the loss for so long that I am used to it by now." She smiled at Laena. "Come on, let's get ready to see the knights of the realm in their melee of magnificence."

Laena laced her fingers through Cass's. "Of course, my husband, your brother, may need consoling that he isn't competing."

"Oh well, if my sweet brother needs me, then who am I to disappoint him?"


	5. The Union of Peace 5

The melee had been a strange affair. Spread out over a vast field, there was very little that she could see for much of it. She had experienced jousts before, but this was different, she couldn't see the knights in their armour, there was no raising of lances and cheering maidens, no pavilions and no criers. It had lasted many hours, but in the end, it had been a loss for chivalry. Led by their hero, the Young Wolf Robb Stark, the Northern men had prevailed, seizing many captives from the other regions of westeros and claiming victory. Over six thousand riders had ridden in the melee, and many would also be riding in the joust as well.

The archery was easier to watch, though fewer people did. A long stretch of the Rush had been left clear of trenches and, in the shadow of the grand lists, archers from across the realm competed to prove the greatest archer and claim the prize. She had expected Cass to be there, to show of her own skills with the bow before the realm. But she wasn't. Later on, they had caught up with her. Cass had apologised for not being able to impress her, but she had an errand to run at the time.

But today was the first day of the great joust, the first of a week of jousting.

She was sat in the royal box in a place of prominence beside the Queen. They were at the front, in their best, most eye catching clothes. With both their husbands riding in the tourney, it was up to them to set the royal example. Sat to the side were her brother and sister, with their mother, and Cat, Robert and Arlan were on the Queen's left. Once again, Cass was absent, though she may well be watching from a hidden place.

Their box was surrounded by men at arms of the Order. Normally the Kingsguard would be there, but for such a fine tourney, the most noble and puissant order of the Kingsguard would have to ride.

They had arrived last. The stalls filled to the brim with lords, knights not riding in the joust, septons, Justiciars and more. The commoners crowded their available side, fathers lifting children onto shoulders so they could observe the greatest knightly display in living memory. The commoners quietened and the lords and knights took their seats only when the Queen did so herself.

Laena looked at Arya and nodded that she was ready. The Queen smiled and indicated for the trumpeters to sound their instruments.

The cheers from the crowds shook the stands as the knights rode out into the lists. Over a thousand knights would be riding in these lists alone, and there was simply no chance of fitting them all in at once. Instead, they came in groups of a hundred. They lined up before the royal box and held out their lances in respect to the royals. When they replied to them with royal waves and bows of the head, those knights with a lady in the stand rode to them to receive their favours for the tourney.

The first hundred was made of noble sons and young knights of the realm, those who had had not known war before. A few may have come to Pentos as squires, but they were children, pages and squires in the great war.

The second hundred that came in were the best Knights of the Vale. Royce, Redfort, Waynwood and Corbray knights and nobles came in to the lists. They raised their lances to the royals, gave a lap of the lists for the crows, received and favours there were to give, and exited for the next groups of knights.

The next hundred were the best dornish knights. They too raised their lances in salute and then retrieved their favours from their ladies.

Seven more hundreds entered the lists and repeated the process. Before every hundred, criers announced their coming. Many of those in the crowd likely didn't remember any of them as they passed, their names would, after all, be called again when they were called away.

Then came the black shields. These were men who had the right to have a black shield painted on the corner of their shields and personal livery. They were expected to be given food and shelter for three days at a lord's holdfast if they needed it, they had automatic right to join the Order of the Stag if they so wished. For they had served in the Night's Watch as half brothers for ten years, and had earned that right. Half brothers couldn't stand for election as Lord Commander, and they were lesser than the men in the watch permanently. Many may not even have been knights when they entered the Watch, but for serving ably, they had been awarded with knighthoods.

Finally came the last group of knights. There were only seventeen men in this group. At the head of them came the king and his son. They contrasted sharply against each other. The King's armour was black as night, the golden surcoat over the top displaying the Crowned Stag. The iron antlers were capped with gold on their points and a band of a crown set around the top of his greathelm. That crown was more inspiring than his usual band of gold that he wore in court.

Durran on the other hand was clad in burnished silver armour. His personal arms were the Baratheon stag but with larger, silver antlers, inspired by the silver streak in his hair so he said. Where the king had capped his iron antlers with gold, Durran's were capped with silver. While the king acknowledged the crowd, Durran raised his lance to them, standing high in his saddle and eliciting cheers from them.

Behind them came the most noble and puissant order of the Kingsguard: At the front was Lord Commander Beric the Dragonslayer, his now famous heraldry resplendent on his white shield and armour. Behind him came Rolland Storm and Balon Swann. Those three were the Old Guard, the only surviving white knights from the War of Dragon and Stag. Ser Loren Jast, a fellow knight who had survived, had died at the King's side in Pentos. Ser Lyonel Fell and Ser Robert Estermont came next, the first had been the captain of the King's guardsmen and the later one of the first initiates into the Order of the Stag. Finally came Ser Garlan of the Black and White, named for serving as a Half-Brother of the Night's Watch and then earning a place in the Kingsguard, and Ser Forley of Harroway "the Priesthunter," the most pious of the order. In the attack on Pentos he had led the men who had torn down the Red Temple, executed all Red Priests within and set up the new Sept there, and he had been a knight of the Inquisition during the Witch Hunt.

After the Kingsguard came the Lords Paramount. Lord Baelor Blacktyde would not be competing, but his eldest son Rodrik took his place, an iron knight of some repute, here to prove that the Iron Islands were different now. Harrold Arryn came next. The Lord of the Eyrie looked spectacular, his winged helm on his head glinting in the sun. He stood tall and proud in the centre of the lists, and Laena almost thought she could hear the ladies of the court swoon when Lady Sansa tied her favour around his arm. Clad in silver steel and purple cloth, Lord Edric Dayne looked more regal than the monarchs. She couldn't help her eyes follow him around the lists and she felt her heart flutter as his wife tied her favour around his arm. Ser Arys Oakheart, Lord Consort of the Reach came with all the heart of chivalry in his chest. The plumes from his helm were tall and proud, and the embossed armour was the most extravagant of the day. Lord Stannis of the Stormlands had forbidden his only son from participating, for he was too young and his only heir, so no man rode out for Storm's End today. Lord Edmure Tully was modest in his armour and tabard, but comely with his smile. Ser Tommen Lannister rode for Casterly Rock, his armour intricate in deep red with swirls of gold. Finally The Young Wolf came. Apart from Ser Rodrik Blacktyde, he had the most modest armour, solid grey plate made for defence not ornamentation. His cloak was not of cloth, but of thick, heavy fur and people still whispered at his achievements in the wars.

Every one of the men went to receive the favour of their ladies. For most this was their wives, but Ser Tommen approached the royal box and Cat tied her own ribbon around his arm. Laena wasn't sure if that was genuine or because the King told her to do it. Knowing Cat though, if her father had told her to, she wouldn't do it just to annoy him, and she had always gotten on well with her uncle whenever he visited the capital.

Durran approached her and held out his arm. She smiled down at him, kissing a long strip of silver ribbon and tying it deftly around his arm so that it fluttered long and proud in the wind. She glanced over to Arya who had done the same to King Jasper, but with a golden ribbon, before she leant in and pressed a kiss to the cool metal of her husband's helmet. Knowing that she had to show as much love as she could, she did the same, the tang of the metal on her lips when she sat back down

They left the lists then, riding away to clear the lists for the competitors for the day.

"Are you ready?" Arya asked her.

Laena was confused. "What do you mean, your grace?"

Arya chuckled. "This will be a very long affair, and you must maintain your pose throughout it all."

Laena was about to confirm that she would do so, but was interrupted by the trumpets. Their notes sounded loud and strong in the air, bringing the crowds to silence. A crier in Baratheon garb stepped up and called out the names of the first jousters. "Ser Richard of Middlebrook and Ser Lyn Farlem." The two knights rode out into the field, accompanied by their squires, who held their lances, and an accompanying man with their banner. The banner was planted and both knights did a full lap of the lists, both bowing when they were in front of the royals, before arriving back at their banners. The squires held out their lances and both knights took them up, raising them in salute to tell the other competitor that they were ready for battle. The trumpet sounded, but was almost instantly drowned out by the cheers of the smallfolk. Laena felt her own heart fall in line with the beats of the horses" hooves, dust swirling around the caparisons of the knights as they closed on each other.

With a loud crack, both lances shattered on the other's shield, filling the air with splinters and noise. Both knights rocked violently, like bells rung by great hammers, but they held to their saddles. They dropped their shattered lances in the dirt, to be gathered up by the pages lining the lists.

On their next pass, both knights shattered their second lance. The crowd roared in anticipation, eager to see who would be victorious this day.

It was decided on the next pass. Ser Lyn's lance once again planted itself into Richard's shield and shattered, but Richard's only glanced off Lyn's helmet, remaining long and proud and beaten. Richard lost his horse and slid off the side, landing with a thud in the ground.

Ser Lyn made a pass of the lists, standing high in his saddle for the crowd. Laena could see the knight in him. He had just won the first joust of the greatest tourney in living memory, surely that boded well for him. Everyone else seemed to think so. When he had circled around to the royal box, Ser Richard was already there, his banner in his hand. Ser Lyn dismounted and accepted Richard's oath that he would present his arms and armour upon the day's end. He then knelt in the dirt and held out his banner. Ser Lyn accepted it with full courtesy and helped the knight to his feet. Laena smiled and clapped at the gallantry. How much better would the world be if they sorted all problems with such nobility and grace?

When the knights departed the field, Laena turned to Arya, getting a start when she saw that Master of Whisperers Ser Marlon had entered the box almost undetected. He was whispering in the Queen's ear, who was listening intently. "Thank you, Ser Marlon," she replied. "Make preparations if necessary, and keep watch. Do not fail," she added.

"I am always watching, Your Grace," Marlon replied curtly, "and I never fail." He pulled up his hood and bowed to them both before leaving the box.

Arya looked at Laena and saw that she had seen the exchange. She smiled and reached over to Laena, taking her hand gently. "A matter of state," she said simply. "It's nothing to be concerned about."

Laena didn't entirely believe her, she was sure that Arya was hiding something. But there would be a reason. Right now she had a duty to do, she had to look the perfect queen-to-be for the crowd.

She smiled and clapped as the next two knights were called into the lists.


	6. The Union of Peace 6

It had been the most thrilling week of Laena's life. The beautiful wedding ceremony and celebrations at the beginning, the grand melee of knights and riders on the plains, the archery displays beside the Rush, the songs of heroes and knights and maidens and monsters, the mummers practicing their art to the cheers of all, and the greatest performers chosen to perform at the end of tourney celebrations.

But the joust... it had been sublime. An entire week of the greatest display of chivalry the kingdoms had seen in decades. The knights in their shining armour, their great cloth caparisons fluttering as they tilted at each other, the lances shattering on shields, the victory laps, the noble oaths of surrender, the flashing of weapons as two unhorsed knights battled each other afoot; it was glorious. This was what war should have been. Honest combat between two noble sides, how much death would be prevented if this were the case.

Now it was the last day of the joust. Today they would decide the victor of the tourney.

The sixteen remaining knights were called out before the day's jousts began. Durran and Jasper led them. Her husband had been fortunate in his opponents. She hadn't known most of those he had tilted against. The only man of note to oppose him was Ser Robert Estermont, one of the Kingsguard. But Ser Robert had been fresh off a tilt with Lord Harrold Arryn, a notable warrior himself. This, and the fact that he was bound by his oaths not to harm the royal family, meant that Durran triumphed in the tilt.

Of the seven Kingsguard, only four remained, Ser Robert had the misfortune to face Durran, and Ser Forley yielded when his opponent was revealed to be his King. Ser Lyonel had faced the Sword of the Morning and come off the worst in that tilt.

No more warriors remained from the North or the Iron Islands, though few competed in the first place. The Riverlands, were more heavily represented, but, while many performed admirably, none were here. Lord Andar Royce alone represented the Vale of Arryn and Ser Lyn Farlem, the first to tilt in the tourney, surpassing all expectations by lasting so long, came from the West. From the Reach came Ser Arys Oakheart, husband of the Lady Paramount and Lord Dickon Tarly. The last two riders from Dorne were the Sword of the Morning Edric Dayne and Ser Oberyn Martell, the greying vengeful warrior, and her granduncle, she reminded herself. Only Ser Robert Storm, the Bastard of the Weeping Town remained from the Stormlands. The last three were from the royal demesnes, Ser Ryon Farring and Ser Lucas Wendwater from the lands that had been loyal to the crown since Aegon the Conqueror, and Ser Olymer Meadows came from those lands added by King Jasper, lands that had belonged to the Reach for centuries.

These sixteen men would tilt and the winner would be lauded as the greatest victor of the greatest tourney in living memory.

The first tilt of the day removed the Westerlands from the running, as Lord Edric Dayne carried Ser Lyn from his horse on the second pass.

Lord Andar Royce was matched against Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard, and a third White Sword was removed from the tourney.

Lord Dickon Tarly was matched with his liege Lord, Ser Arys Oakheart and triumphed, the Huntsman removing Ser Oakheart from the tourney.

The King rode against another of his sworn knights, Ser Garlan who, like Ser Forley, rode only for show, with no intention of pursuing victory.

Her own husband lowered his lance against Ser Ryon Farring and took three passes at him before unhorsing him in a shower of splinters and swirls of dust.

Ser Robert Storm was unhorsed by the Red Viper, still a deadly warrior, even as he aged.

Ser Olymer Meadows rode against Ser Rolland Storm, only to be defeated by the Kingsguard knight, thrown so hard from the saddle that he had to be carried from the lists.

Lucas Wendwater had the misfortune to be paired with the Dragonslayer. In truth, as her husband had told her, Ser Beric's strength lay with the sword, far more than the lance, but the reputation of the man was such that only the very best and most experienced could face him without trembling. Lucas was not so skilled and was taken hard and fast on the third pass.

Sixteen knights had become eight. Those who had fallen hung their banners below the royal box, a sign of honour for those who had come so far in the tourney. Time was given so that they may go to the stands and watch those who had defeated them. She saw that knights from the Order approached Sers Ryon, Lyn and Olymer. The order was often represented at tourneys to look for potential recruits for their ranks. More would be walking the city of tents, seeking out other notable knights from the previous days at the tourney.

The trumpets sounded to announced the next round of the tourney.

"For the first tilt, Ser Beric Storm and Ser Rolland Storm are to take to the lists!" Cheers of excitement shook the stands. For the first tile two of the white swords would tilt against each other. Not only two of them, but two of the oldest serving members. This would be a performance to see. She sat forwards herself. The two white clad knights rode to the centre of the lists and turned to the Queen. They bowed in the saddle. With a signal from Arya, they rode to opposite ends of the lists, took up their lances and held them up in salute.

The trumpets sounded and they kicked their horses into action. The dust swirled in their wake as their lances lowered carefully. The beating of the hooves got faster and faster. Laena's heart fell in step with them and the cheers of the crowd died down. She focused on the lance of the Lord Commander. Like two ships smashing together at sea, the white knights smashed into each other, splinters from the lances flying in all directions, both knights raising their heads so splinters didn't fly through the visors of their helms. But both kept their horses steady and reached the other end of the lists still in the saddle.

Laena let out a breath she'd been holding tight in her lungs, trying to calm herself as both knights reached out for fresh lances to be given to them.

With another sounding of trumpets, both knights charged at each other. With the same intent as before, they lowered their lances. A crack rent the air as the two knights rode past each other. Ser Rolland reared back in the saddle, struggling to maintain hold of his horse. But, in an impressive display of horsemanship, he was able to keep the saddle. But when he turned Laena gasped with much of the crowd. His shield had split along one plank, the tip of the Lord Commander's lance sticking from it. With a wrench he pulled the tip from the shield, leaving a nasty hole in the wood. Ser Rolland decided that was enough. His squire pulled down his banner and the fight went to Ser Beric.

Ser Beric stood in the saddle to the cheers of the crowd before leaving so that the next competitors could ready themselves.

The names that were called out next shook her to her core. "His Grace Jasper of the House Baratheon, King of Westeros, Lord of it's Lands and Peoples and Protector of the Realm. And Prince Durran of House Baratheon, Prince of Tarth!"

There were no cheers this time, only murmurs of curiosity, apprehension and growing excitement. The King and his son. The man who had brought the tourney together, and the one it honoured. The one who ruled, and the one who would one day rule.

She glanced at Arya. The Queen's jaw was clenched tightly, her eyes stern. Her husband and son were to ride against each other. Accidents were not uncommon in Tourneys, but so far, apart from some minor injuries, this tourney was free of that curse. Was the luck about to end? Would the king and his son maim each other? Would one of them die?

She shook her head, both were experienced riders, they wouldn't die.

The two men in similar armour rode out before the royal box. They nodded at each other before turning to their wives. If they were worried, neither showed it. Durran raised a hand to wave at her, the silver tips of his antlers glinting, her favour fluttering in the wind. She waved back with a smile. With a stiff gesture, the Queen sent them to the ends of the lists. Laena gently reached over and touched Arya's hand in a kind gesture. The fist gripping the arm of the chair loosened ever so slightly, but was still tense as the King and the Crown Prince prepared to tilt against each other.

The crowd was silent. For the first time since the tourney had began, Laena could hear the wind over the bay and the flutter of the banners.

Then the trumpets sounded and father and son, king and kin, prince and progeny put their spurs to their horses and charged. If they had any doubts it didn't show to Laena's untrained eyes. Both tucked solidly in the saddle and lowered their lances. She closed her eyes just before the impact but that only made the crashing sound louder. She cracked one eye open. Both had shattered their lances on the other's shield. They had kept to their saddles and were ready to ride again.

She winced as they past each other again. But once again, they kept their saddles, and once more the two Baratheons called for fresh lances. This time she kept her eyes open, but wished she hadn't. The king, the man who had overseen her childhood, not unkindly, rocked so hard in the saddle she was shocked he hadn't rolled over the back of his saddle. Durran was more steady, keeping a strong grip on his reins and sitting tall. Murmurs went around the stands as the King steadied himself in his saddle. Was the King about to lose to his own son? Laena thought back to when Jasper had humiliated Durran in the courtyard of the Red Keep. Was Durran using this as a chance for revenge?

If so he was to be disappointed, for on the next pass it was her husband who struggled to keep the saddle as the King rode past with strength and determination.

Twice more they passed each other by, shattering their lances on the shields of the other.

"Enough!"

Laena twisted her head to the side. Arya had gotten to her feet, a fire burning in her grey eyes as fierce as the one in her husband's left. She nodded at the trumpeters who sounded them as the Jasper and Durran were casting aside their lances. They looked to the box and rode over when they saw that the Queen had risen.

Laena held her breath. What was Arya about to do? If this were an earlier day, the tilt could be declared a draw, but not today, not on the final day. Arya sat down as the two men raised their visors, faces red and both panting. "Husband," Arya said solemnly. "You have ridden well today, but I feel the effort of this last week has reached you. Today our son is the superior rider.

Jasper looked at Durran who looked back at his father. _Don't give your father your usual grin Durran, please._ The King looked back at his wife. He nodded. He signalled his squire and had his flag taken down.

Arya nodded at the criers who told the crowd what has just happened. "Her Grace, Queen Arya has determined that, on this day, the Prince is the superior rider and has awarded him the victory."

The crowd applauded as Durran gave a victory lap of the field and King Jasper retired to his tent. Laena turned to Arya. "Was my husband riding better, Your Grace?"

Arya looked to her, her face softened and her grip loosened. "If he was, then not by much. But I don't care, I won't have my husband and son keep jousting until one of them is maimed or dead. Ever."

After Durran had left, the criers called out the next two knights. "Ser Oberyn Martell and Lord Dickon Tarly."

Laena watched the two knights come forth. Ser Oberyn had been a notable rider in his youth, but this was not his youth. They passed each other four times before the youth of Lord Dickon prevailed and Ser Oberyn was unhorsed.

The final tilt was not much of a tilt at all. The Sword of the Morning placed his lance perfectly and carried Lord Andar Royce from the saddle on the first pass.

Some time was given to allow the four remaining knights to prepare themselves. First, Lord Commander Beric would tilt against his future charge and then Lord Edric Dayne and Lord Dickon Tarly. The victor in each tilt would face each other to determine who was the champion of this tourney.

Suddenly the crowd got to it's feet. Laena was unsure why but quickly realised and hurried to her own feet as King Jasper entered the royal box, flanked by the Kingsguard who had been removed from the tourney so far. "Father!" Cat squealed and rushed over hugging her father tightly around the middle. The king smiled and stroked his daughter's hair softly. "Yes, I'm here Cat," he replied. "And I hope you have been behaving yourself."

"I have, father," she insisted.

"She has, Jasper," Arya told him.

The King nodded. "Good, now sit down, let us watch your brother." He passed Robert and Arlan and turned to them. "I hope you've been watching closely, it won't be long before you are out there, Arlan, and one day, you will be too, Robert."

Arlan nodded eagerly. "I have been, father," he promised. "One day, I shall be a champion."

Jasper laughed. "I'm sure you will be, my boy." He turned to Robert. "And what about you, Robert? Will you be a champion?"

"I-I hope so, father."

Jasper shook his head. "No, Robert, one day, you will be just as good a knight as any other out there, this I swear. If I have to coach you in the hours of darkness, I will make it so." He knelt before his youngest son. "So, what will you do when you go out there?"

"Joust?" Robert replied.

"And?"

"... win?"

"Thats my boy!" Jasper ruffled Robert#s hair and kissed him on the forehead. "Good, now, let's see if your brother can win this tourney today." He turned and made his way to his seat, Arya surrendering it to him and moving down one place. The Kingsguard, all with their swords, yet none with their armour, moved up behind the royal family.

As the King took his seat, so did the crowd.

Her husband rode out to the cheers of the crowd. His opponent, the Dragonslayer arriving at the same time. They both came before their king and waited for his approval. With a mere gesture, the king sent them to the ends. "Can Durran defeat Ser Beric?" She asked the king.

Jasper nodded slowly. "He can, depending on how Beric decides to ride."

She narrowed her eyes. "Do you not want him to win?" She asked him.

The King turned his eyes to her. "Durran is my son, I always want him to do well, and it would be nice to have been unhorsed by the tourney champion. All the same... he defeated me... I don't like that."

Before Laena could question him further, he signalled the trumpeters for the joust to begin.

The other Kingsguard had restrained themselves when riding against the royals, but not Ser Beric. He charged with the clear intent of being victorious in this joust. Durran replied with equal enthusiasm.

They slammed together in a shower of splinters, both men rocking in the saddle with the force of the blows.

"He's faltering," Jasper commented. "Durran doesn't have the stamina to keep this up."

 _He can tell that from one joust?_ Laena thought. She shook herself. She should not question the king on matters of war, he had seen more of it than she ever hoped to.

He seemed to be right. Durran held out, but after another two tilts, she could tell the effort was getting to him. His lance movement used to be smoother, now it was coming down far too quickly and shaking when it was lowered.

On the fourth pass, this proved fatal. Her husband's lance slipped of Beric's shield cleanly while the dragonslayer's passed Durran's shield by and shattered on his breastplate. She gasped as Durran was thrown bodily from the horse, landing in the dirt.

The king was on his feet in a second. He watched intently, gripping the edge of the box with whitened fingers. The queen looked ready to vault the box, but the king seized her arm and held her back. He shook his head at her and, after a few moments, Durran rose, staggering slightly, gripping the lane of the lists to steady himself. He was helped from the lists by men at arms of the order. She turned to the king. "Your Grace, if I may, I should go to my husband."

He looked at her and nodded. "I will proceed with the next joust, but the final tilt can wait until you return." She bowed and left the royal box.

Durran was not in his tent. Her heart rushed. Where would he be? His squire wasn't there either.

The camp was mostly empty, with almost everyone either watching the tourney. But even so she could hear something ringing not too far away, maybe they saw where Durran went. She followed the sounds, they seemed to be coming from the smithy.

"There," she heard a voice say as the ringing stopped. "Try that."

Some grunts followed, then a voice she recognised as Durran's, but muffled. "No, it's still stuck."

She turned the corner and froze at the sight before her.

Durran was knelt on the ground, his helmeted head resting on the smith's anvil as the smith raised his hammer high. "My Lady!" Durran's squire gasped as he saw her and the smith and Durran looked at her. She couldn't tell what Durran"s expression was, but the smith looked mortified.

"L-Laena!" Durran exclaimed, clambering to his feet. "This... this isn"t as bad as it looks."

"Then... what is it?" She asked.

He reached up and rapped his helm. "It's stuck," he said unhelpfully.

"It seems to have been dented by the fall," his squire added.

"So," she replied slowly, "you're trying to beat it back into shape?"

"Exactly," Durran replied, kneeling down once more. "Try again," he said, resting his head on the anvil.

She winced as the smith's hammer rained down on the base of the helm again and again. Then Durran held up a hand. "That seems to have loosened it," he told the smith. "Tybalt, come here," he beckoned his squire. "Take the antlers, and when I say, pull."

Laena bit her lip as Durran grunted in pain. The helmet was sliding up over his head, jerking inch by inch. But finally, with a great cry of relief, the helm was pulled free. Durran staggered backwards and was caught by the smith, his hair ruffled and face bright red.

"Finally," he grunted, clutching the back of his head.

"Are you okay?" She asked concerned.

He nodded, trying to flatten his hair to his head. "I am," he replied confidently. "Beric got lucky on that pass, next tourney, I'll have him on his back."

"Your father said-" Laena began.

"What?" Durran asked with a hint of a sneer in his voice. "That I was doomed to lose to Beric from the first tilt, that I couldn't have won? " He scoffed. "He's just saying that because I beat him. Father doesn't like losing. Even when I defeat him in a tilt, can he not acknowledge that I have some skills?" He shook his head. "That was unbecoming. Does father want something from me?"

She nodded, surprised at the anger in Durran. Was the relationship between father and son so cold? She wouldn"t have thought so before, but now... "He says he will hold the final tilt until you have arrived, he does not wish you to miss it."

Durran nodded. "Then I had best not keep the king waiting." They got him out of his armour and fetched a clean tunic for him and made their way back to the royal box.

Everyone turned when he entered. "Father," Durran greeted formally.

"Durran," he replied and she saw the hint of a smile on his lips. "You rode well today, I'm impressed, you just need to learn to last a little longer in the saddle."

"As you say, father," Durran replied, the praise pleased but the criticism cut deep.

Just as the Queen had, Laena surrendered her seat to her husband and sat at his side, curious as to who would tilt against the Lord Commander in the final joust.

Jasper signalled the herald who gave the announcement. "Lords and Ladies, you have waited long for this moment. Before you come two knights of unparalleled skill and valour. Let us now see which of them is the greatest knight to ride in this tourney, Ser Beric the Dragonslayer, or Lord Edric Dayne, the Sword of the Morning!"

The crowd roared as the Dragonslayer and the Sword of the Morning rode out into the lists. They turned to the king who acknowledged them with a bow of the head and a gesture. They tapped each other on the shoulder out of respect before cantering off to the ends of the lists.

They took up their lances. On the sound of the trumpets they charged. The lances lowered and everything seemed to slow to her. The sun glinted off the lances and rippling pennons, making the lances seem engulfed in swirling and roaring flame. They came together in an explosion of bright light. Beric's horse reared back onto it's hind legs and the Lord Commander fell from the saddle. The Sword of the Morning held to his mount and was able to tame it again.

It was over. The Dragonslayer got to his feet, but he did not dispute the victory with swords. This was a victory. The Sword of the Morning was the victor of this tourney.

He was presented with the garland of flowers on the end of a fresh lance and, after one lap of the lists, lay them in the hands of his lady wife to the celebrations of the crowd. She felt her own eyes tear up at the sight of them, such a perfect display of chivalry.

She clapped with the rest of the crowd. This was the last day of the tourney and the last that the commoners would see of it. But it was not quite over for the nobles yet. They would rest tonight, those who rode would recover, and tomorrow there would be a grand ball held in the Red Keep.

Then she and Durran would likely ship off to Tarth to rule over his new possession. She reached over and took Durran's hand, they only had one more day to see to, then this affair would be done.


	7. The Union of Peace 7

Finally, after what felt like, and probably was, hours, Laena was ready for the Masquerade. Her silks and laces wrapped around her body and flowing to the floor and her white-gold gloves lay upon the desk before her. The mask, an elegant ivory face with makeup around the eyes, silver tears flowing from the eyes and a veil of black and red that would be pulled up and over the back of her head to cover her silver hair from view.

That would go on closer to the event though, so she slipped from the room and made her way towards the throne room. She met Durran a corridor away. His doublet was a trim and neat shirt of black velvet, a purple and cloth-of-gold cloak hung from his shoulders, and his hair was slicked back close to his head. Soft black gloves were tightly stretched over his hands to the extent that she could see his knuckles beneath them. In his right hand he held his mask, a smiling gold face with black highlights around the eyes and mouth. He smile when he saw her. "Beautiful," he told her with a grin.

She smiled back. "Thank you," she replied. "I hope you wear velvet more, it suits you." She couldn't help her smile turn to a grin as Durran's became a grimace.

"Please don't make me," he muttered, scratching as his arm, her comment seemingly reminding him of the discomfort he was in.

"I'm sorry, husband," she replied cheekily. "Let us go, perhaps at the ball you will be distracted."

"I doubt it," he replied, but he brought the mask to his face none the less. When it was fastened on it made for a slightly disturbing sight. The eye sockets were made so that they cast his eyes in shadow, like black pits of ink. "Do you need help?" He asked in a voice that she could tell was his likely only because she knew it was him in the first place.

She nodded. "Yes please." He held the veil out as she fastened the mask to her face and let it fall to cover her silver hair. Inside the mask, her breath heated up her face and her vision was narrowed. More than one person would collide if they all wore masks like this.

"Shall we?" Durran asked, holding out his hand. She nodded and placed her hand in his.

Just outside the door to the throne room the crowd was gathered. Men and women in masks of varying kinds, some were simple bands that covered only the eyes of the wearer, others were more elaborate, fully decorated faces of animals and humans looking at her curiously, wondering who's face was covered by the ivory mask.

But none could mistake the king and queen. They were clad in elegant robes of gold and silver. The King's Mask was gold with inlays of onyx and black swirls. A band of points like those of a crown went around the top. If she looked very close, she could see a hint of his vengeful eye from the left eye socket of shadow. Arya's mask was silver with gold and white inlay, a half-skull, it left the left side of her face free. She smiled at the sight of the two of them, a small smile, but a smile none the less. She knew their masks and had likely been looking for them, but it would rather defeat the purpose of the Masquerade if it was revealed so early who they were. That was part of the fun.

Knowing that this was just as important as the dancing, they moved to mingle. "My my," a voice said. She turned to see the speaker. A woman in a full face mask of shiny onyx, with red and gold swirls inlaid into it, her blue and black dress leaving her shoulders and the upper slopes of her breasts visible, "quite the masks the two of you have."

"And you as well," Laena replied. "Are you here alone, my lady?"

"Well wouldn't that be telling," she replied coyly, reaching out and placing her palm on Durran's chest. "Perhaps soon you will have this mask off, my lord, and then you will know."

"Perhaps I will," Durran replied. She narrowed her eyes under her mask, but Durran didn't seem to be taking it too seriously.

"Tell me my lady," said a deeper voice to her left, a man in a half mask was smiling at her courteously. "What brings you to tears today?"

She smiled back at him, miming wiping the silvery tears on her ivory cheeks. "Why, good ser, they are tears of joy at such an occasion."

"Tears of joy are the best of them all," he conceded. "Let us hope this evening lives up to it."

"I'm sure it shall."

Then a trumpet sounded, which they knew was the signal for everyone to enter the throne room. She felt Durran take her hand and lead her to the line up outside it. She was behind a woman in a lion's mask that covered her whole head. She looked at Durran who nodded at her, she nodded back.

When the men of the order opened the doors to the throne room they entered in procession. The victors of the tourney of singers and musicians playing the music and singing the songs to them. Everyone spread out, Durran taking her deep into the throne room until they stood near to the Eightstone Throne. She put her hands on his shoulder and took his hand, as his hands went to her hand and lower back, holding her securely. Soon the processional music ended and they chords of dancing were struck.

It began slowly, the two of them circling each other like two angels, bound at wrist and waist and shoulder. The music was sensuous and delightful, tingling her senses. They twisted and turned in time with it all, letting the rhythm guide her movements. Her husband puller her in close so her back was against his chest, one hand on her stomach, the other holding her hand. His masked face pressed down near her shoulder as they spun and turned.

She felt her heart flutter when she heard him seemingly purr into her neck as the music began to slow down. Durran spun her around and pulled her in so they ended pressed against each other. To kiss him she would only have to move her head a little, if there weren't masks separating their lips.

They bowed to each other after the final chords had been struck by the musicians. The partners began to part around the hall. From now on the centre would be reserved for those who wished to dance, and the rest of this performance would happen around the outside of the throne room.

She could already see that tables were set up with for gossip and discussion, with masked men and women gathering around them. "I feel like a break for now," Durran said. "Shall we go and see what some of father's guests are saying?"

"Of course," she replied.

They approached the nearest table as a new song was struck up. .".. and honestly, the man called himself an ennobled lord, he was nothing more than a common knight before the war. To think he considered me his equal." The man who was speaking shook his head.

"Well this ball is made all the brighter by his absence" said a noble woman in a half mask, nodding in agreement. "So many "nobles" these days can barely trace their names back to their fathers, let alone through a thousand years of ennobled history."

"I quite agree," Laena said to them, nodding proudly. "Thank the gods his grace has seen fit to keep most of them across the narrow sea."

"Indeed," Durran added, catching on. She could picture his grin under his mask. "I half believe his grace took them across the Narrow Sea so he could be rid of them, my own lands were subjected to much rapine and murder by landless men of the war calling themselves knights. Men who have certainly never felt steel on their shoulders before."

"I hope coming here didn't upset your finances too much, my lord," one of the others around the table commented. "Lord Crane declined his grace's invitation, claiming that reason."

"It won't help him much." A noblewoman spoke. "He'll have one of the justiciars at his castle before long, mark my words. The shame of it," she shook her head disdainfully. "The king just imposed those men on us, no consultation, nothing."

"And no objection," Laena pointed out.

"Object with what?" The lady snapped back. "At the announcement he had a thousand knights at his back, and we had still not recovered from the war. How were we to object?"

Others murmured their consent. Laena knew that some of his policies had been unpopular, but for people to talk in such a way in the Red Keep itself... "The king has brought us stability since the end of the war," one man said. "Whatever else, the peace has been good for us."

"I don't deny that," said another nobleman. "That the king is talented is not in question. But I wonder. Since his sixteenth nameday, his grace has known war, he knew it almost constantly for years. No one talks about his face, not even he. But it happened in war. I wonder if he knows anything else. If he won't start to listen... someone may need to talk to him in a language he understands."

"My Lord," Laena replied with a bite to her tongue. "No one here wishes a return to the horrors of war."

"True, but none wish to live with the sun blotted out by an iron boot either."

"We may only need to wait," said a man who had been silent so far. "The king may be a trial, but the boy, he has a head screwed tightly onto those shoulders of his. A warrior who bested his father, and a noble young man."

"I'm sure he'll be a truly noble king," Laena replied. At that moment she'd have given anything to see what was under Durran's mask.

"Perhaps better than his father," Durran replied.

"Enough of this morbid talk," one noblewoman said, stepping forward. "We should be celebrating peace and life. Now I feel I must free myself. My lord, will you do me the honour?" She held her hand out to Durran.

He looked at it for a second. "It would be my pleasure, my lady." He took her hand and led her to the dance floor. She didn't follow him for too long, it was harmless, the woman didn't even know who he was.

"Perhaps that is wise," Laena commented to the other lords and ladies. "Who knows where this master of whisperers is."

"Well he's no spider, that's for sure," one lord with a full faced ivory mask replied. "That one had eyes everywhere."

"You can hardly blame the king," said a second noblewoman added. "The spider was working against him without notice for years. Perhaps he has chosen someone less competent than the spider for fear of another betrayal like that."

"What devilry is being discussed here?" asked a new arrival, a man in swirls of red and orange velvet. "This is a day of enjoyment and merriment, not cold and dark conversation."

"Too true, my lord," Laena replied. "Let s enjoy his grace's hospitality."

The others agreed. "And in that spirit," the new arrival said, holding out his hand. "My lady, may I offer you a dance."

She accepted, placing her hand in his. "Gladly, my lord."

He led her out to the dance floor where a slow tune was playing out on flutes and lyres. "So," the man said as they took their first steps, her left hand in his right, and their other hands held out to the side. "Your accent tells me you are from the crownlands, the King's Royal desmenes, how is it to be ruled so directly from King's Landing?"

She didn't reply immediately. She wasn't good with accents, she couldn't tell with this one. "Well enough," she replied, not revealing too much. "His grace has treated my family well since the war."

He nodded as they advanced. "I suppose, being from here, you have more to gain or lose from the events tonight, the marriage of the future king and your overlord."

"Why my lord, is he not to be overlord of us all?" She replied.

"Perhaps," he said. "But the king himself seems to be in health as fine as ever. I think it will be many years before that happens."

"Such concern for the King's health," she replied as they began to turn around each other, left palms pressed together, slowly.

"The health of the king is the health of the realm, all should take an interest in it."

"I believe all do, the ones to watch are those who would change it."

He chuckled. "I believe you to be collected on this matter. I hope we are of one mind."

She smiled under her mask. How she had missed this sort of thing lately. "With these masks on, it can be hard to tell friend from foe. Is that not the case my lord."

"Indeed," he replied at once. "It is why I do so enjoy these evenings. Everyone is either a curiosity or a concern. The effort comes in working out who is which."

"And which am I, my lord?"

"So far, a little of both," he replied.

The song began to slow and enter it's final phase. "Ah, it seems our fun is over for now. I do hope we can do this again. You are the finest partner of this evening."

"If you can find me, my lord," she reminded him. "I could be anyone behind the mask."

"I do so love a challenge, my lady," he said as they parted.

She danced with another three partners in quick succession. But they were clumsy, overly obvious in their attempts to identify her. She teased them through the rhythm and moved on. She was taking a break at the edge of the dance floor when a voice came to her. "Having fun tonight, my lady?" She turned. It was the woman in the black mask, the one who had flirted with Durran outside.

"Much," she replied. "It has been quite the week."

"Hasn't it just," she replied. She held out her hand. "Will you join me?"

She raised her eyebrows, but nodded. "As you wish it, my lady," she replied.

They fell in step with the music, thankfully it was another slow one, her feet were wearing out. "You dance well. It has been so long since I've done this."

"What have you been doing instead?" Laena asked.

"Many things, here and there," she replied. Laena didn't reply. This woman was strange, both distant and familiar. Then, as they were pulled into each other in the dance, the woman whispered in her ear. "You need to come with me, now sister."

She nearly stumbled but was able to keep her footing. "Cass?" She asked when they pulled together again.

She nodded. "Father sent me," she replied while they were close. "Follow me in the dance, I'll lead us off and then we can go to him. He needs to see you. Now."

She nodded and kept dancing. It must be serious if Jasper had sent Cass to find her. She followed Cass's movements closely as she led her away from the dance. When they were off the dance floor Cass took her hand and led her away. The ball had spread by now, out into the corridors around the room, where those who didn't wish to dance right now were mingling and enjoying themselves with conversation and drink. Some gave the two fully masked women a look as they passed, but only as a passing curiosity, not nearly enough to distract them from what they were doing.

Cass led her towards a room manned by two men of the order. She nodded at them and they stepped aside, letting them enter. They were in a small guardroom, empty but for four people: The King, the Queen, the Master of Whisperers and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. None of them were masked and all looked distressed. "You found her," the King sounded relieved.

"Yes father," Cass replied, removing her mask. "She was on the dance floor. Still no sign of Durran though."

Jasper ground his teeth. "I put everyone in masks to protect him, not so that we could lose him." He turned to Marlon. "You told me you had eyes watching him."

"They lost him, your grace, I can say no more than that."

"Protect him?" Laena asked.

Jasper, Marlon and Arya glanced at each other. "There was... talk," Arya replied, softly. "Threats made."

"I thought I had settled the matter," Marlon said. "I seem to have been wrong."

The door opened and another two masked men entered. "Laena?" One of them said.

She gasped when he pulled off his mask. "Father!"

"Aegon," Jasper said, cutting across her. "I need you to take Laena back to her chambers, stay with her until further notice. Laena, don't get changed yet, we'll send people to find you if we can find Durran, and you can return. Beric?"

"Ser Forley is already on his way, he'll keep people out."

"Your Graces," Marlon said. The other man in the mask pulling back from whispering in his ear. "Your absence is already being noted."

"I knew it was a mistake to make it clear which was my own mask. I thought it might draw any attention away from Durran... Very well. Aryan and I shall return. Cass, go back out there and look for your brother. Aegon, take Laena back to her chambers. Marlon... find him."

Cass glanced at Laena. "As you say, father," she said, putting her mask back on.

"Your Grace," Aegon said, putting his mask on and helping Laena with hers. "Let's go," he said. She nodded and went with her father.

"Stay safe, Laena," Cass said as they passed, her good-sister squeezing her hand.

She walked by her father's side as they made their way past the throne room. "What's going on?" Her father asked her when they were out of earshot of the room.

"They can't find Durran," Laena replied quietly.

Her father paused, she could feel his confusion burning behind the mask he wore. "But isn't that rather the point of a masquerade?"

"I think they're overeating a little," she told her father, remembering the Queen's reaction to Durran and Jasper's joust. "You can hardly blame them. It's been quite a trying week."

"True enough," her father replied. They passed the throne room, the music and conversation filtering out in a wild medley of sound and noise. "I saw you in the stand," he said once they had passed the noise. "I was so proud of you up there, you looked every bit a queen."

"I'm not queen yet," she reminded him, squeezing his hand. "And hopefully not for many years to come."

"Hopefully," Aegon agreed.

The people had thinned out considerably the further they got from the throne room, but as they tuned the corridor there were still two men conversing in hushed tones. They paused when they saw Laena and Aegon approach, then nodded to each other. Clearly they didn't wish to be overheard, for they were silent when they passed them.

Suddenly a sharp pain caught her around the throat. She kicked wildly and choked as an arm wrapped around her neck and squeezed. She pulled at the arm, nails catching on fabric, but finding no purchase. She tried to call for her father, but no air could pass through her lips. She heard a weight fall to the ground beside her. "Take the mask, make sure it's her," the man holding her said. The mask was ripped from her face.

"It's her."

Fingers dug into her cheek painfully. "That wasn't the husband was it?"

"No we already have him."

Her vision was darkening as she struggled to breathe. "Give her the potion, we have to hurry."

A vial was pressed to her lips and a thick liquid trickled onto her tongue. It had a sour and burning flavour, and when it hit her throat, everything went dark.


	8. The Union of Peace 8

She groaned as she came to. A long black snake was coiled around her, trapping her limbs to the chair she was sat in and holding her middle. Her throat was drier than Dornish deserts, like someone had drawn a string of rough stones up through her gullet. Her tongue was thick and useless in her mouth and everything was but a blur before her eyes, barely peeping out from under heavy eyelids.

"She's awake." She heard someone call from a great distance. Then something delicious and wet was shoved in her mouth awkwardly. She sucked the liquid from the thing, the cold water more refreshing than anything on her tongue, but burning as it went down her throat.

"Took her long enough," this was a closer voice, whoever it was. "He was getting worried. Weren't you?"

They must have been talking to a dog, she assumed, given the growl that replied. But she had never had a dog in her life, why would one be getting worried over her? She tried to speak. She opened her mouth and forced air out, trying to shape it with her lips, but her tongue wouldn"t co-operate, so a hiss was all that came out.

"Laena," a different voice, from her right this time, not far away.

Cold glass was pressed to her lips and more water rushed into her mouth. She tried to swallow as much of it as possible, but a fair bit still spilled onto her chest.

"What's... what's happening?" She asked, finally able to get her tongue under control.

"Don't worry, princess, you won't be brought to harm, we just need you with us for now."

She tried to get up but the ropes she had mistaken for a snake held her down. "Where am I? What's going on?"She looked around. She was in a dank, dark place, the dripping sound of water falling into puddles a constant rhythm in the dark. Most of the light came from torches and braziers scattered around, though some silvery light was coming from grates in the ceiling. And the smell. The smell was bad even by the standards of King's Landing, shit and muck was all around them.

"We're beneath King's Landing right now, Princess." The speaker was wearing a full face mask. "We hope not to be here for much longer, but we still need a few more things before we can move on."

"Who are you?" She asked.

"Don't bother," someone said from beside her.

She turned and gasped. "Durran!" Her husband was bound to another chair right next to her, a large dark bruise on his cheek and dried blood caking the side of his face. He was still in his clothes from the ball, though they looked significantly worse for wear. "I've been trying since I woke, they won't say a word."

"Not to you," a woman replied. The same woman who had taken him away for a dance at the ball. "But when we are gone from here, the princess can ask all she wishes, we'll answer her. All we're waiting for now is her father."

"My father?" Laena asked. "You don't have him?" He had been with her when they took her, how did they not have him. Had he been able to escape?

The woman shook her head. "No, not yet, but we'll find him, and his other loves, and then we'll be gone from here."

"With you and them in our hands, nothing will stop your father from rising again. And this time, we will be victorious."

Durran scoffed. "My father beat Aegon before, he can do so again."

"But since then the realm has choked under his iron boot." The man explained. "He favours the men of the Stormlands and Crownlands over any other regions. His Justiciars interfere with the Lord's rights to exact justice, and his new knights are everywhere. He holds castles for himself and garrisons them with his men. Many will rise this time, more than he has, and this time we will be victorious."

The woman laughed. "And as you were so happy to say at the ball, many of his newest lords and knights are in the east."

Durran growled. "There are still many who owe their positions to father."

"His obvious allies, they will be the first to fall."

A noise from behind them made their interrogators look up. "Any news?"

"Nothing," another voice said. "Still the king has said nothing about his son and newest daughter having gone missing."

"Nothing?" The woman asked.

The newest arrival, another man, came out into their vision. "Aye. He has instead opened the court, saying he will hear any petitions while they are all here."

"Keeping everyone here as long as possible."

"Some have already left," the new man said. "But I suspect they were inspected by the Master of Whisperers before."

"Still, with the court open, you must have found them?"

He shook his head lamentably. "I'm afraid not. The manse of his lover is guarded more strongly than ever, I can't get close. And I haven't been able to get to Aegon. I don't even know where he is."

"Surely _he_ can help us?"

"I've given one of the contacts a message, he will be here shortly, and should be able to help us."

"He'll be angry though," the woman mentioned. "He told us not to do anything here. Said it was too risky."

The first man chuckled. "So, he'll change his tune when he sees our prize."

"Can't we just kill him?"

The newer man shook his head. "No, not just yet, we may need him as a hostage in the war to come." A noise made them turn. "For now we should keep watch, give them a drink and then keep watch."

A glass of cold water was pressed to her lips and she drank deeply.

When the three captors had left, she turned to Durran. They had been far less careful with him, water dripping from his eyebrows. "Are you okay?" She asked him.

He nodded. "I should ask you that, I wasn't sure you'd ever wake up."

"How long was I asleep?"

"Longer than I was," Durran muttered. "From what they said, it would seem two days have passed since we were taken." He paused. When he said that, Laena suddenly felt her empty stomach. "What that new man said," he continued, the hunger not seeming to bother him. "My father... has he not acknowledged that I am missing? Has he even noticed?"

"How can you ask that?" Laena asked. Their relationship had not been the perfect one, but how could Durran doubt that his father cared for him. "Durran, I was taken when I was being sent to safety after he noticed you had gone. He was desperate."

"Was he," Durran's lip curled up, but not in happiness, but amusement. "Truly, did it just take my disappearance to make my father feel... something." He looked at her, his blue eyes glinting in the shadow. The heat from the braziers and torches was nothing compared to the heat coming from those eyes. "Do you remember my first castle?" He asked her.

She was taken aback by that. Durran had never owned a castle before in his life. Unless. "You mean that mossy ruin in the Rainwood?"

He nodded. "I made it my castle. Arlan, Ned, Ormund, they were my knights, Cass was my spy, though she had wanted to be a knight. You were my queen. How old were we then, eight, nine? We'd broken from our escorts on the way to Storm's End, went running through the woods. A thousand beasts could have taken us, but what did we know any better, we were children. Then we came upon that ruin. How long did we defend that old mossy ruin from our enemies? It didn't matter what the world threw at us, we held to the end. Until father and his knights found us. He looked down at me. I didn't know what to make of it at first. His eyes, they looked so... empty, like a snuffed flame and a stilled lake. He wasn't worried, or scared for my life. As much as I can remember I've been told that father loves me. By you, by Arlan, by my mother, I even remember times, a long time ago, when he said it. But not anymore, now he just wants me to learn to be the king. He cares about nothing else about me." He looked at the ground. "He thinks it's so hard being king. He wants to prepare me for the day that I am king. But he doesn't know... he should try being the son and heir of King Jasper Baratheon for a day. Nothing I do matters except in comparison to him."

"That's not true," Laena said. She wanted to reach out to him. To take his hand, but her arm was still bound. "You heard those people at the ball. They see you as their future. Many of them look forward to the day you will rule them."

"Only because they dislike my father and his policies." Durran replied at once. "Even these traitorous bastards. They've taken me to punish my father. Not me... never me..."

"Durran... your father only wants the best for you. He only wants you to be able to rule well and-"

"Look after his legacy," Durrran finished. "That's what he wants the best for. If they think that my being a hostage will hurt my father, they're wrong. If I die, he will raise Arlan in my place, and his plan will continue."

She bit back her reply. She should let Durran work his way through this. Perhaps she could bring it up with the Queen. Let her try and get the two to more of an understanding.

They waited in silence, only the sounds and smells for company.

"How did they take you?" Durran asked, to break the silence.

"I was on my way back to my room with my father, they sprang on us and forced some kind of potion down my throat. What about you?"

Durran scoffed. "Not nearly so nicely, that woman led me onto the dance floor, then we moved away from it, she was... enticing. Then someone took me from behind... with a club. Clearly they care more about you than me."

"My name, my blood and my father perhaps... but I don't know these people," she replied.

"We both live in the shadows of our fathers it seems." Durran said.

They returned to silence. Waiting for something, anything to happen.

Eventually they heard voices and footsteps approaching.

"This is them?" A new voice, different than before, somewhat familiar and not muffled by a mask. "Yes, I see the hair." A few seconds of silence passed. Laena tried to turn to see the new arrival, but he was behind her and her bonds didn't let her turn far enough to see him. "You simpletons. I told you... I gave explicit instruction that we were not to do anything while this event was on. It was too dangerous."

"And yet we have them," she recognised the woman's voice. "Now we need to make our next move or it is all for nothing."

"The next move you plan will not be made." The new arrival was curt and disapproving.

One of the masked men spoke up. "Why not? All we need is King Aegon and-"

"He is dead." Laena felt her heart stop. _Dead._ "When you took his daughter, you killed the person next to her. You killed her father."

"No!" She screamed.

"But... we didn't..."

"Think. It's your perpetual problem. All of you. This wasn't a plan. And now you forced everything out into the open. All of us who are here are under threat."

"What, but..." It all merged into pointless noise for Laena. Her father was dead. How... how could he be dead? He'd always been there, smiling, laughing, encouraging. A shoulder when she needed it, or a pair of ears when she'd wanted it. This wasn't right.

The new arrival suddenly appeared in front of her, kneeling to her level. He wore a hood that obscured his face in shadow.

"But most of them weren't even involved. How can they be under threat? They weren't here."

"Not all of them. But men at arms of the order are moving on their tents and chambers even now... they will correct that problem."

"What?"

The hooded man said nothing. Only moving to check on Durran.

Rapid footfalls followed. The apparent leader of the masked ones seized the hooded man by the front of his cloak and lifted him up, looking him in the eye. "You... you have betrayed us... you've told the king."

"Actually." The hooded man punched the masked man in the side, making him gasp in pain. "It was you, Ser Oberyn, you broke under interrogation and revealed everything there was to reveal. As the world will see it anyway."

The masked man fell back and hit the floor with a splash. The hooded man wiping the dagger he had used clean. The mask fell off and Laena gasped. It was her mother's uncle. Oberyn Martell.

"That bastard, has he not learned his lesson?" Durran swore.

"Wh... why?" The woman cried out. "Why have you betrayed us... you called us all together in the first place. Why us?!"

"You?" The hooded man asked. "It was never about you, none of it. The Royal Family is all that concerns me. As long as I could watch you and keep you on a leash, things were proceeding fine. But then you had to ruin everything by attempting to bring them harm, and that, I cannot allow. Kill them."

She heard several cries of pain and more bodies dropping to the damp, dark floor. The hooded man knelt once more and cut out Durran's bonds, and Laena felt a those around her middle loosening as well. "I'm sorry it took us so long, sister."

"Cass?" Her newest sister came around to cut her hands and legs free. She was back in her leathers, her bow on her back and a sorrowful look on her face. When she was finished, Cass pulled her into a tight hug. Laena wrapped her arms around Cass, falling into the warmth she provided. They pulled apart all too quickly, as Cass went to hug Durran as well, who was stretching his arms out.

Laena turned to the hooded man. "Who are you, ser?" She asked.

He reached up and pulled down his hood, revealing familiar hawkish eyes. "Ser Marlon."

He bowed his head. "Yes, my lady. I'm sorry it took me so long to find you. But I had to make sure that we got all of the conspirators." He turned to Cass. "Cassanna, take them back to the Red Keep, I'll oversee things here."

She nodded. "Come on you two," she said, beckoning them to come with her. Laena glanced behind as they left. The other masked people were laying in the muck and filth, arrows protruding from their chests. She shuddered at the sight of it.

Durran wrapped his strong arm around her shoulder as they followed Cass back home. "Cass," Laena asked quietly as they left. "What Ser Marlon said... about my father... is it..." Cass didn't answer.

The Red Keep was silent and still. The only movements in the dark were the scuffles of patrolling guardsmen as they made their rounds, but none stopped them on their way. They were being led to the royal bedchamber, Laena recognised, the King and Queen must be waiting for them there. The two Kingsguard outside put their hands to their swords when they saw them coming, but when they recognised them they let go. "My Prince," Ser Garlan exclaimed in relief. "It's good to see you."

"They've been anxious for news," Ser Robert added. He opened the door. "Go on in." She parted from Durran and they walked in side by side.

They had barely entered before there was a loud gasp and Durran was attacked. The Queen threw her arms around his chest, squeezing tightly. "You're alright."

"Yes mother," Durran wheezed, gently prizing his mother from his chest. "I'm here."

Laena glanced around the room, letting mother and son have some privacy. On a lounger nearby she saw Durran's brothers. They were sleeping back to back, curled up next to each other. "What are they doing here?" She asked.

"We've kept them all here since you went missing," Arya replied, smiling at her younger sons.

"Where's Cat?" Durran asked.

Arya bit her lip. "With your father."

"And where is he?" Laena noted the coolness in his tone, and Arya couldn't have missed it either.

The Queen pointed at the door leading from the Solar into the Bedchamber. "He hasn't slept since you went missing," she said defensively. "We had to drug him a few hours ago. But we can wake him now."

They entered the bedchamber and Laena couldn't help a smile come to her face at the sight. The King was lying on his side, his left arm folded under his head, his right lay out in front of him. Cat was wrapped around that right arm tightly, holding it closely, her mouth slightly agape as her chest rose and fell with her breathing. "My Prince!"

The Grand Maester was sat beside the bed. He stood up and bowed his head. "I wasn't aware that you'd been found."

"It was only just now, Grand Maester," Durran replied. "How is my father?"

"Tired, he needs his rest, but he'll have my head if he learns that you were found and I didn't wake him." He uncorked a small vial and held it under the King's nose. A few seconds passed but then the king wrinkled his nose and swatted away the Grand Maester. He groaned and Laena could see the struggle the king had opening his eyes. But he made it and forced himself into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes roughly.

"Wh-what," he groaned, then blinked at them. "Durran?"

"Yes, father, I'm here."

The King let out a breath. "I'm glad. I'm glad you're safe... my son." He held out his hand, shaking like a twig in the breeze, barely attached to the branch of the tree.

 _Come on Durran, move!_ She thought. But when he didn't do anything, Laena gave him a shove in the back and he stumbled forwards. He caught himself on the bed frame before taking his father's hand. "I... I'm... sorry, Durran, I... I couldn't... I let you... I."

"Your Grace, you need rest, lie back down," Varwyn said, moving up with a glass of white fluid in his hand.

"It's okay, father. I'll be here when you wake up. I promise."

Jasper didn't let go of Durran's hand, but his grip was feeble, like that of an old man struggling to hold onto his cane. But when Varwyn gave him the drink he let go of his son's arm and slid back onto the bed. Cat groaned and squeezed her father's arm tighter. "Should I get her?" Laena asked.

Varwyn nodded. "It would be best, the King will likely be asleep for some time, and shouldn't be disturbed when the Princess wakes herself. Laena swept around to the side of the bed and gently prised the sleeping girl from her father's arms. She put Cass" head over her shoulder and took her into the solar, while they left the king to his slumber.

When they closed the doors to the bedchamber, the Queen came over, holding her hands out for Cat. "Let me have her," she said, not unkindly.

"Are you afraid of Laena's ability with children, mother?" Durran asked.

"No," she replied at once. "But I have no idea where the two of you have been, all I know is that you smell worse than Fleabottom. Go back to your chambers, wash and rest, tomorrow, perhaps Jasper will be awake, and we will talk."

As they left the chamber, she turned to Durran and saw him smile. "What?"

"Father," he replied, simply. "He was pleased to see me."

()()()

King Jasper awoke a day and a half later, looking more refreshed than Laena had seen him in a while. The last of those involved with the plot to kidnap her and Durran had been rounded up swiftly and executed, Ser Marlon providing the evidence to see them hanged. Apparently, he was already building up a new network of traitors so that he could keep an eye on them. She had underestimated the Spymaster, as did many. Before the trial had even begun, however, the guests had started leaving, wishing to return to their own land.

Laena hadn't seen the trial though, neither had Durran. They were in the Sept, where her father was displayed. The charge of his murder lay at the feet of the dead conspirators, as was proper, but she knew the whispers were already spreading that Jasper had killed him. She had not cried over his body. He wouldn't have wanted it. After a day of his body being displayed, he was consigned to the flames. The King had asked her what she had wanted to do with it. Her father was a Targaryen, and so he would be given to the flames as one.

"I will never forget you, father, thank you, for everything," she had whispered before leaning down and pressing a final kiss to his cold dead lips. The King gave her the flaming brand which she used to start the timbers burning.

Alys and her children had wept at the funeral. The King had told them that their manse would always be theirs, but Durran had offered them one on Tarth, away from the city and closer to her, an offer they had taken.

Their things were being placed onto the ship that would take them to Tarth, her husband's new lordship. "I'm sorry," Durran told her as they watched the last of their things be loaded. "I know your father was close to you."

"Thank you, Durran," she whispered a reply.

"When we get to Tarth, we'll build a sept in his memory," he promised.

That made her smile. "Then let's get going, so we can choose the perfect site."

He held out his arm. "As you say, wife."

 _Extract from A Vengeful and Just King – Chapter Nine – Reign of Peace_

 _The marriage of his rival's daughter to his son and heir was the final end of the War of Dragon and Stag, despite the event being marred by the death of Aegon Targaryen and the attempted kidnapping of the newlyweds._

 _The wedding was supposed to bind the old wounds and bring some measure of peace to the realm, but instead, the death of Aegon Targaryen meant that the living symbol of opposition to Jasper was no longer under his control, and his nobles still chafed under much of his rule. These dissatisfied nobles started looking for another who could unify them and present opposition to the king. This time, when they found one, they found one outside the King's control, and one who would force King Jasper to take up the sword again to defend his realm and his crown in his final war._


	9. Seeds of Rebellion 1

**Seeds of Rebellion – 19 AVJ**

 **Cassanna Flowers**

* * *

The Iron Hand was dead.

Lord Stannis had never let his deteriorating health diminish his responsibilities as Hand of the King, still attending every meeting and session of court. But he had passed away in his sleep at the age of fifty three, leaving his holdings and titles to his son.

Lain out on the stone at Storm's End, one would be mistaken for thinking he was still just asleep, his lined face perfectly still and his greyed hair combed to one side. She glanced up at her father, standing next to Lord Stannis' head. The king was more morose than ever Cass had seen him before, both eyes filled with sorrow as he looked down at the face of the man who'd raised him. They were positioned in the sept so that all the faces of the gods: the Father, stern and strong; the Warrior, just and proud; the Smith, hard and taut; the Maiden, sweet and pure; the Mother, warm and loving; the Crone, wizened and lined and the Stranger, hooded and unknowable were all looking down at Lord Stannis.

"I'm sorry for your loss, father," she whispered to him.

"Thank you, Cass," he replied, not looking at her. "He's been in my life for so long. I never considered..."

She swept around the table and wrapped her arms around her father from behind, squeezing his muscled chest. His body was warm, she could feel it through his black doublet, but his heart must have felt cold to him. He patted her arms with his rough soldier's hands. "He's at rest now, a rest he well deserves." He muttered. "I need to honour his life in my own... before I join him."

"Father?" Cass replied, stepping back. "You aren't planning to join him are you?"

He turned to her and she saw his lips curl up into a slight smile, his eyes brightening a little. He reached out and cupped her cheek, brushing her hair back behind her ear. "We all die at some point. But don't you worry, Cass, I intend to be here for some time to come."

They heard the door open. Ormund was dressed in black velvet from collar to toe. It was remarkable how much the boy she had known, shy and slim with spindly limbs had grown. His form was corded with muscles and he had a lanky frame that suggested he had much left to grow. He was a few inches shy of six feet, considerably shorter than his father and uncles had grown to be.

But even if he didn't grow to be as tall as his father, in other ways he was his father's son, through and through. He bowed dutifully before Jasper. "Your Grace, I hope that Storm's End is to your satisfaction."

"Always, cousin," her father replied. "I'm sorry for your loss. Lord Stannis was... the best man I've known."

"I know he was close to you as well, Your Grace. I only hope I can serve as well in his stead." The earnest tone with which he spoke never failed to surprise Cass, she had never met a more earnest boy. "On that note, the money is prepared to be sent to the capital."

"There's no need for that so soon," Jasper replied hurriedly. "As long as it is paid, you may take your time if you wish."

"I have the money, Your Grace," Ormund replied simply. His face, the fat of youth chiselled away, looked as stoic and solid as granite. But Cass could see the pain under his features at the loss of his father. "And my father would want me to pay it at once."

Jasper nodded, not wanting to draw out the issue, and thus the pain. "Very well, thank you Ormund."

He bowed his head. "Your Grace... with your permission... may I have the sept?"

"Of course, take as long as you need cousin," her father said. "Come Cass." She nodded and followed her father. When they got to Ormund, she gave him a hug, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He awkwardly returned the hug, but she eventually pulled away, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

When the door was closed Cass fell in step beside her father. "What money was that, father?" As far as she was aware, Jasper had taken out a loan from Storm"s End before, not the other way around.

"A new tax I introduced," he explained. "Although, if I'd known... Stannis... Ormund would be the first to pay it..." He shook his head. "An inheritance tax. The heir must pay a one of tax to his liege lord in order to inherit."

She vaguely remembered something like that happening, but she wasn't up to date on court affairs, not as much as she should be. "The nobles accepted that?"

He nodded. "Surprisingly, with very little complaint. You only pay to your direct overlord, and the amount you pay is determined by the land you own. No one should be crippled by it. So I only collect inheritance tax for the Lords Paramount and the Crownlands. Each of those Lords Paramount and Crown lords in turn collect inheritance from their landed vassals."

"What of those at the very bottom?" Cass asked, surely the landed knights didn't collect from the peasants."

"Only pay very little more than they did, given that they didn't own much land to begin with." Her father explained. "Lord Mooton came up with the system and who would pay how much." Lord Mooton had served as Master of Coin for some years now, and had been a great help in rebuilding the economy of Westeros after the War of Dragon and Stag.

They moved into Storm's End's courtyard of stone. She had rarely gone to Storm's End before, only accompanying her father on his visits. When she had become his angel in the shadows, she'd sought out threats. Lord Stannis was many things, but he was no threat to her father.

"I like it here," her father muttered, looking up at the sky, it reminds me of... easier days. Storm clouds were rolling in, it looked like there would soon be a downpour.

The gate started to rattle up, the chains cranking the spiked portcullis up into the gatehouse.

She had thought that it would be a new bannerman arriving to pay their respects to their liege's death. She was wrong.

Dozens of riders came streaming in. Men in flowing cloaks and thick furs, men under wolves and giants and rabbits. They were knights without their armour, swords at their waists and sworn swords at their sides, and leading them was her brother.

Durran had taken to the tournament circuit for the last three years, after ruling Tarth for three more. In his mesnie were riders from all over Westeros. She saw Ned Stark, the heir to the north and several of his companions. Jon Umber, Cregan Manderly, Ronnet Bolton, Harald Glover, Arton Ryswell, Torrhen Mormont, the twins Harrion and Marlon Karstark and Brandon Cassel, Ned's squire.

From the Trident she saw Hoster Tully, Lucien Bracken, who rode beside Jason Blackwood, somehow her brother had gotten the two to work together. Karyl Piper and Marq Vance, boys named for each other"' fathers, a sign of their friendship, Olymer Frey, Hendry Mooton and Daryn Mallister finished off the pack.

She saw men from the Vale, sons of Royce, Bellmore, Hunter and Waynwood, Lord Arryn's sons were too young to start tourneying yet, so neither were with the prince's retinue.

Fewer came from the west. Lord Tommen had no sons yet to ride, though she saw Jaime Marbrand and Flement Brax were there. Slightly more came from the Reach. She saw Lady Shireen's son Robert was there, as was Garlan Serry, Mern Meadows, Leo Cordwainer and several others. She didn"t see any from the Stormlands, though she knew her brother had some with him. It was possible that they had already returned upon the death of their liege lord while her brother came more slowly with the rest. One of Lord Dayne's sons rode beside her brother as one of his three squires, but Dorne was on the whole, absent. Three new knights from the Iron Islands were also present in the mesnie, part of Lord Baelor's efforts to integrate the Iron Islands with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. There were many knights she didn't know, people who her brother had picked up, young new knights with names like Hopper, Scarr and Madern. Then each of the noble sons had brought squires and sworn swords with them as well, some by choice, some by insistence of their fathers and mothers.

Durran dismounted and his squires took his horse for him. She smiled at the sight of young Robert. Her youngest brother had pleaded for a week to become Durran's squire until their father acquiesced. By all accounts he had acquitted himself well in the post. Her oldest brother approached and dropped to one knee before his father. "Father," he said, bowing his head. "I'm sorry for your loss. I came as quickly as I could. I know Lord Stannis meant a great deal to you."

Her father nodded stiffly. "Thank you, Durran," he replied. "Rise." Durran got to his feet. He had nearly finished growing now, and stood at a similar height to father, perhaps there was an inch in it. They embraced tightly and briefly.

"My lady," she turned. The Storm's End maester was standing by her. He held out a letter.

"Thank you," she said, taking it. The black sealing wax was set with an eye, and she knew who the letter was from. She tucked it away as Durran approached.

"Sister," he said, pulling her into a hug. She squeezed him back, not to be outdone, and pecked him on the cheek.

"Brother," she replied, smiling. "It's good to see you."

He chuckled, running his finger through her short hair. "Still playing the man?"

"More man than you brother, at least I'm not expected to have hair on my face."

Durran raised an eyebrow. "Father shaves as well."

"Yes, but I'm hardly going to say that father isn't a man, am I," she pointed out.

He nodded sagely. "Very wise," he said. "Now, I must go and pay my respects to Lord Stannis, your pardon." She stepped aside as Durran marched past her. He had the gait of a soldier now, born from his years on the tournament path.

Her father was in conversation with several of Durran"s companions, as more spread out around the courtyard. He she saw that he was talking with Ned Stark, Jaime Marbrand and Hoster Tully. They had all bowed when he approached. She slit open the letter from Malon. It was written in code, so she sat on the steps of the drum keep to read it.

 _Cassanna_

 _It seems a full two dozen members of the gold list are gathering at Lord Tarly's castle of Horn Hill. They are not alone, some silver members are there, as well as some not on any list, one or two I am positive of loyalty. You need to go and investigate._

 _Marlon_

Short and to the point, as always. Still, the gold list were those who were known to harbour treasonous tendencies against her father. After she and Marlon had dismantled the first lot at her brother's wedding they had been reforming. This could be nothing at all. But better safe than sorry.

She would have to tell father though. She approached him as he seemed to be finishing his talks with the young ones. "Cass?" Ned asked, blinking at the sight of her.

She grinned. "Indeed little wolf." Not so little any more, but the name stuck. He was so like his father it was uncanny. Not just hair and eye colour, but his build and the shape of his face were all like the Young Wolf. She hugged him briefly and kissed his hair. "I wish I could stay and talk, but I must have words with father."

"It's no matter," Ned said, smiling.

Hoster nodded. "Indeed," he said, in a clipped noble tone. The Tully words were Family, Duty, Honour, but from the way he spoke it would seem that Hoster favoured the second of the priorities. He looked similar to Ned, both having Tully colouring, but he was slimmer, and while Ned was growing out a full beard, Hoster had only a neatly trimmed moustache. "We were just finished."

"I'll think on what you've told me," her father said earnestly. "But I must needs mourn my uncle first."

"Of course, your grace," the young Marbrand replied, bowing his head.

She watched the young warriors depart. "What did they want, father?"

Her father sighed. "A number of concerns addressed," he replied. He gestured for her to follow him back inside, leaving Durran's mesnie to settle themselves. "Lord Tully wants Harrenhal back under his control and the Rubyhold's territories reduced and given out to some of his lords. Tommen wants me to settle the Golden Tooth in his favour, while Tully would sooner I kept it as my own for now. He has bad memories of the last war. He sees it that as long as I hold the Tooth, I control the pass, invasion from the west is less likely." Rubyhold was a castle of the Order, built to oversee the Ruby Ford crossing of the Trident. Lord Commander Beric had ordered the construction to begin when he was rebuilding the Riverlands after the war. Then her father had garrisoned it with his new men and knights and had spent much on upgrading the castle. It gave him control of one of two crossings of the Trident. She was no strategist, but she could see the value. The Tooth had reverted to the crown when the line of Lefford had died out. It was to the king to assign a new family, but until he did, the incomes and rights reverted to the crown. An issue of concern to many lords.

Once they were safely inside, she turned to him. "I've just had a letter, father," she said, holding it out and showing him the seal.

"Marlon," he sighed. "Where are you going?"

"Horn Hill," she replied.

"Tarly." He shook his head. He looked her in the eye. Many got unnerved by his mismatched eyes of fire and water, but not her. If there was a time when father had looked at her with two identical eyes she did not remember it. "Just be careful, won't you," he said, reaching out and placing his hand on her shoulder. "I worry about you. I don't know if your mother would have approved of the path you've taken, and even though I permitted it. I worry. You may not be trueborn, but you are mine."

She nodded, wrapping her arms around his middle and squeezing tightly. Father never spoke that way openly. But when he did, it meant the world. "I'll be careful, and if there's any news. I'll let you know."

He nodded as she pulled away. "I know you will. Just be careful. I can win wars and foil plots, but do not make me have to go through losing another child. Not now."

"I promise."

He pulled her in and kissed her forehead lightly. "Go in the shadow of night, so that none see you go."

She nodded. "I'm your angel in the shadows, father. None will see me."


	10. Seeds of Rebellion 2

She took the road south west from Storm's End, towards the Dornish Marches. It would have been quicker to go north along the Roseroad then cut south once in the Reach, but being discreet was more important than speed. If so many of the list were gathering at Horn Hill, it would take time for them to join, giving her time to arrive herself. If this were a gathering with treasonous intent, then it was likely that Lord Dickon was watching out for spies of the king, and the Roseroad would more likely be being watched. It would also take her across the lands of several reachmen houses who had also supported Aegon in the last war, and houses that would also have close relations to Tarly for historical treaties and kindnesses. This way she would be going through the Stormlands, and the Reach and the Stormlands had been on opposite sides of the last two wars, and the Stormlands were staunchly loyal to the Baratheons. It would be less likely that Tarly would have spies along the roads in the Stormlands than in the Reach. Not that she intended to reveal her location to the lords there, but it was better to be safe than not, she'd stay in inns, taverns and under the stars, not castles or holdfasts.

Her southern route was more direct but slower, and she was in Lord Tarly's lands from the first step she made across the border. She could have taken a direct route cross country to Lord Tarly's castle but that was more likely to be detected by Tarly freeriders and patrols. Instead she took a day and a half travelling around to the north so she could join the main route towards Horn Hill, blend in with travellers there. It also meant that she would pick up any rumours coming out of the castle and it's nearby lands. Most discounted rumours, but when you learned to separate the diamonds from the dung you could learn enough. Perhaps the actual truth would escape you still, but at least you would know something of what to look for.

The road to Horn Hill was not as developed as the Roseroad proper. It was narrower, with just enough room for two carriages to pass each other in opposite directions. This was the sort of road with enough people on it to warrant an inn eventually, but not enough that there should be a whole town between her and Horn Hill. If she could find an inn, that would serve her well, there was no better place for gossip... save perhaps a brothel, but she doubted she'd be so lucky.

There were plenty of people on the road. Those travelling alone seemed to be heading back towards the Roseroad while those peddling their goods and wares were moving as she was, towards Horn Hill. She saw some hedge knights and their squires on their way to Horn Hill; the carriage of Lord Blackwood, one of those on the silver list of Marlon; and several merchants heading south into Tarly Lands. She tapped her horse's flank a little with her spurs to make her speed up, if there was to be a tavern, she wanted to get there before these knights. Knights made the people silent, and she would need them willing to talk about Lord Tarly.

The sun was setting as she came across the inn. Thankfully, judging by the noise, it didn't seem full. She guided her horse into the stables and tied her up tightly and securely.

"What have we here?" She spun. Two learing men, one too fat one too thin, the fat one was bald and sweating, but his bare arms were the size of most tree branches and he was running a thumb over the blade of an axe at his waist hanging next to a small leather money pouch. One blow from those ham sized fists would drop her like a sack. She could reach for her sword, but that would all but scupper her chances of staying in the inn this night.

"Costs four coppers to tie your horse up in this here place", said the other. In comparison to the fat man, this one's limbs were like twigs but there was a light in his beady eyes, a light of greed and hunger, but not bravery.

She dug into her money pouch. "Four coppers?" She held out her hand with four coppers resting in the palm. She let her hand shake a little, giving the illusion of fear. The fat man's hand nearly swallowed her fist as he snatched the money.

"S'good", he said to his fellow. She pulled down her hood, revealing her face and stepped forwards.

"I'm glad we won't have a problem", she said. She smiled nervously and cupped the fat man's cheek, leaning up to peck him lightly.

"N-no problems with us lady."

She smiled, nodded and walked back to her horse slipping the man's money pouch inside her cloak as she did so. She took her sword and bow with her into the inn, better not to leave them out where anyone could take them.

As she'd suspected, the inn was empty enough, several tables had no one sitting at them, but all in all, not a bad evening's business for the owners.

She walked right up to the bar. "Any rooms?" She asked. The man behind the bar looked at her curiously, likely he had never seen a woman dress so mannish before.

"We got one", he replied. "If you got the money."

She placed her new money pouch on the bar. If the man outside was a worker here, then he could get paid again, if not then he had just saved her the cost of a bed. He opened the pouch, looked inside, and nodded. "And a drink if you have one."

He filled a mug with rich golden ale and passed it over. She took it with a smile and moved out into the hall. She spotted one group of three men with one woman next to an empty table. The men had the look of merchants and the woman, a wife. She took a seat next to them, never looking but listening intently.

.".. telling you", one of the men said in a hushed whisper. "If you want profit, by all means head to Horn Hill, but it's dangerous. What they're saying about the King..." He shuddered.

"Is it really that bad?" The woman asked.

"They were openly scorning him. Those with Tarly's patronage are in the best spots and every one of them is sprouting treason."

"Hardly treason", said another one. "I've spoken against all the kings I've seen, and I've seen three, I'm still here."

"Well, go if you want, but I'm staying well away from there. They have puppet shows, singers, even a septon speaking against him."

The man seemed a little addled by the ale he'd been consuming, but even so, if Tarly was going so far, was he trying to become the public face of resistance to the king? His father had been belligerent as well. But this was a risky play for Tarly to make. If he thought her father to be crippled by the loss of the Iron Hand, he was mistaken.

She drained her ale and went to her room. She'd find out when she arrived at Tarly's castle.

She set off early the next day. She wanted as much time as possible at Horn Hill when she arrived. The road was mostly empty in the blue light of dawn, only a few stragglers winding along the path in both directions, those few swiftly getting out of her path when her horse came up on them. She'd been told that she looked like the Stranger incarnate when she rode: hood pulled up casting her face in shadow, clothed in black on a black horse, all she needed was a scythe and she would be the reaper himself.

It took her until noon to reach Horn Hill. The castle looked like it was readying for a tourney, many tents and pavilions set up next to the town adjacent to the castle, likely for the knights and mesnies of the lords that Tarly had summoned to him. Though from what she could see, most had come with more than a few knights as protection. Not that that was uncommon, they all wanted to outshine each other by bringing the best most brightly shining retinue of chivalry and strength they could. The people had brought them all they could think of. There were stalls of merchants peddling their wares, armourers, smiths, mask sellers, puppeteers, men selling sausages, bacon and pigeon on sticks. She'd likely get too much attention in the town of silk, knights were the riders there, and everyone would wonder who the hooded figure was. She could hope she would become a tale to speculate over drinks and nothing more, but if this was a meeting of malicious intent Tarly could well send out people to find the mysterious figure. Better to be safe, so she turned from the town of silk and moved instead to the town of wood and brick.

It seemed most of the townsfolk were in the silk town so she had no trouble moving through the streets, getting only a few curious looks from the townsfolk.

She knew what she needed, one place she could lie low and people would only talk of her once she was gone.

The brothel was on a side street, but hardly the seediest she had ever been in. She tied the horse outside it and entered. It was a perfumed place, with drapes hanging in deep red, plenty of soft places to relax in before heading up to the rooms with your girl.

The building wasn't busy while most of the men of the town were away, several of the girls, some quite young others old and thoroughly used turned to her as she pulled her hood down and approached the desk. A greying woman was behind it, dressed far too conservatively to be a whore. She stood up when Cass approached the desk.

"Hello sweet thing? Looking for work?"

"Looking to sample some of yours", Cass replied.

She nodded, business-like. "Don't get many women, but we can provide. What are you looking for?"

Cass glanced around. "Her", she said, nodding to a blonde haired girl to one side. "Has she been with a woman before?"

"Jewel? No, not once?"

"Then not her", Cass said. "You have other blondes, who've been with women before?"

The woman nodded. "We have three others. A lovely little thing, new addition, Lilac, she's been with women before, not unwillingly either. We keep her here and pampered, the most untouched here."

She didn't want someone sheltered, she wouldn't be any help, despite the pleasure she could offer. "And the other?"

"Leilen, she's a more... adventurous sort. If you were to find one of my girls on the street in the day it would be her, though not working mind you."

She nodded. That was the sort of girl she needed. "I'll take her."

The woman nodded. "For how long? Our hourly rates are-"

"I want her retained", Cass said, digging three silver coins from her pouch. "For as long as I'm here, no one else uses her."

The keeper's eyes widened slightly at the coins. "And... how long would that be?"

"I have no idea", she said. "But I'm willing to pay."

The woman's fingers were twitching. "That can be arranged", she said.

She put the first two coins down. "I'd like to begin now."

"Eager?"

"It's been some time."

The woman nodded. "Go up to room ten, near the top, she'll join you shortly. You can keep your... belongings there as well."

She smiled. "Much appreciated." She hefted her sword and bow onto her back and headed up to room 10.

It was a simple enough room on the third floor of the brothel, a small window overlooked the street, the bed was relatively comfortably fitted, with thick sheets and mattress, though she had had better in larger cities. None could match up to Lys, even under the rule of Volantis, the city was thriving in producing the finest of pleasure slaves, particularly since Yuunkai had been absorbed into the Ghiscari Empire, the cities of Harpy Bay were no longer so determinate on the slave trade as they were.

She set her bow and blade down against the desk and sat on the bed, waiting, soon her whore would be here, and her work could begin.


	11. Seeds of Rebellion 3

She ran her fingers through Leilen's blonde hair as they rested in bed. She knew what she was doing, that was certain, but still, the hair was darker than she would have liked. She had wanted bright and vibrant blonde hair, her hair was dark blonde, though it looked like it had been lighter once before. But bright blonde hair... if it had been brighter she could have seen it as the silver she desired. "Very good," she whispered, holding the whore close to her form, wrapped up in the sheets.

"I try," she replied, kissing the shoulder her head was resting on. "And you paid for the very best."

She smiled at the truth. "I did." But as much comfort it would bring her to lie with this beauty for the rest of the day, she had things to do. Still, there were one or two things she could achieve with the warm body pressed flush against her. "You know, I'm not entirely sure what's going on here," she said. "I was only intending to pass through, but when I arrived there were all those tents outside."

"You and most of the town." She said. "It was most surprising, we only got the announcement a two weeks ago." She quickly counted back the days. Lord Stannis had died just over two weeks ago, enough time for Tarly to hear of it. "It came out of nowhere, we hadn't even heard much from him for a month , he never left the castle."

"Never?" Cass asked. No hunting or anything for a month. That seemed wrong.

Leilen shook her head. "Not since the Justiciar."

"What Justiciar?"

"Lord Tarly ruled on a mill dispute, passing it over to one inheritor, but the Justiciar overruled him and passed it onto another. He wasn't happy."

"What happened next?"

"The Justiciar left the next day, they say Lord Tarly imprisoned the man awarded the mill and had his eyes put out and threw him in the dungeon, then he gave the mill back to his man of choice."

Surely Lord Tarly wouldn't be so bold as to try and overrule a Justiciar? Her father wouldn't stand for it. But he shouldn't need to. "Justiciars take measures to ensure that their edicts are obeyed, what measures were taken here?"

Leilen looked up at her confused. "We didn't see any."

"I'm sure it's nothing." She said quickly. "So what is going on anyway? I haven't heard of any tourney's happening here."

"That was announced yesterday," Leilen said. "There's to be a melee and possibly a joust, we're just waiting for more competitors to arrive first."

She raised her eyebrows. "So the tent people arrived _before_ the tourney was announced?"

Leilen nodded. "Again, it was a bit rushed, but us girls will be busy at least.

Cass smiled and pushed Leilen over so she lay on top of her. "You'll be busy with me for the near future," she said, pressing her lips to the whore's.

If this was a tourney then it was an embarrassingly shockingly organised one. There were no lists, no designated area for a melee, no quintains to practice at, no stands for the lord to sit at. But walking through the camp, this didn't seem to bother the knights, who were lazing around like guardsmen, not seemingly prepared to ride against anything or anyone.

Something different was happening here. She had to find out what. She couldn't alert her father, not yet, it could still be a small tourney that was yet to be prepared.

"He has forgotten his oath to the gods!" A voice not far off cried. "Once he fought for us, striking the enemy from these realms, but now he has fallen to sin and falsehood making promises he will not keep. This king has been marked by the gods themselves, you can see it in his eyes. Marked by the Seven as a false king and by the Red God as a champion. Let us only hope the noble born among us stand up to Jasper-called-king before he brings doom to us all."

That was bold. Even far from the capital to so openly curse her father was a bold move. Some saw him as a tyrant, but none saw him as weak. Thankfully there were no cries of support here. She saw some laughing at a puppet show, where one puppet with a half black half white face was thrusting into a wolf. Mockery, not treason.

She looked up at Horn Hill. Most castles in the Reach were more aesthetically pleasing than the rest of Westeros, but Horn hill was a fortress far before anything else, more akin to the Stormlands than Highgarden. The source of all of this was there, not out here. If she was going to learn the truth, she had to get inside. If necessary she could try to scale the walls, but in daylight she didn't fancy her chances. But thankfully there was a stream of people going in and out of the castle, and the guards didn't seem to be checking them. She kept her sword concealed and pulled down her hood, they would certainly check up on someone hooded, but a girl with short hair was a curiosity, not a concern.

If there was any truth to the millers story, it had to be told. The Justiciar could back it up afterwards, but if it was true that the owner had been blinded and imprisoned, then he was likely here. Tarly would probably have killed him, but possibly not. She would go down and find him if he was there, and if not, she'd have to look elsewhere for her proof.

Thankfully most of the guards seemed to be out at the tourney field, she only encountered the odd serving hand here and there, but she'd have to be finished before dusk or she'd have trouble.

There was a guard by the entrance down to the castle dungeons though, standing tall, but clearly bored, by the entrance. "Good ser," she said as she made to move past. With courtesy and purpose she could bluff her way in without effort. Unfortunately he was too alert for that and barred her way with his spear.

"Where are you going?" He demanded, fiercely.

She put on the weak and demure face of a maiden. "Please ser, I only wished..." she bit her lip, "wished to see my father."

"I can't allow that," he replied firmly.

She took his hand in hers and slipped five silver coins into it, more than he made for the year most likely. "Please ser, my father is very sick. He may be dying."

"I..." he looked at the silver coins. "I suppose... I could let you see your father. Will you be long."

She shook her head. "Not long at all ser."

He glanced to either side to see if others were coming, then jerked his head. "Get going."

She kissed his cheek and slipped down the stairs. The dungeon was lit only by the flickering light of torches. The gaoler was sat at his bench but only gave her a cursory glance. As far as he was concerned, whoever the guards let through was none of his concern, unless that someone asked for a key.

She glanced into every cell as she passed. Most were empty, one held a man who had the look of a brigand, another a man with a bandaged hand who looked to have been in a fight. "M'lady."

She froze and turned to another cell. The man in this one was leaning against a wall, he had a hard look in his eye, and one that recognised her. "I know you," he said. "You work... for the master of whisperers, m'lady."

"Hush now," she whispered, rushing over. "Who are you and how do you know that?"

"Forgive... forgive me, m'lady, I am Josua... Justiciar Josua."

"The Justiciar!" She gasped. "The one who overruled Tarly on the mill."

He nodded sadly. "I did. I had barely left when Tarly ambushed me, his men killed my escorts and took me prisoner. He's been... asking questions about King's Landing... the King. I-."

"Shhh," she whispered, holding her hand through the bars. He didn't take it, instead crawling to one corner of the cell. At first she thought she'd scared him away, but he quickly returned.

"Here," he said, and placed something cold and metal in her hand. She withdrew it and saw it was the badge of Justiciar. "You must get it to the king. Tell him what has happened. He has always sworn that Justiciars are extentions of his will and body. He must respect that."

"I will," she promised. That would be all the proof she needed. "I promise."

"Good," he said, leaning back like a weight had been lost from his shoulders. "It was an honour serving... better than reciting prayers... the rest of my life. Go, quickly, before you are found."

"Be at peace friend, the king will come."

"I hope."

She slid the badge inside her cloak and slipped out of the dungeon, giving the guard another kiss as she did so. Men liked that sort of thing.

If she was to get this to father as soon as possible, it had to go by bird. She'd need one of the castle's ravens. This might be her chance, she still had light today, and most of the guards weren't there. "If you're going to leave the castle, you may want to do so now," the guard said. "We have a large party of knights coming in."

She nodded and hurried away, but not to leave the castle, she had to get into the rookery and send a raven to King's Landing. It had to get to father. He may still be at Storm's End, but if she sent it there and he had gone it could be opened by the wrong person. Even if he wasn't at the capital, the Queen would see it, and she could tell father.

The rookery was easy to see, in a tower of the keep. With the birds themselves flying in and out of it. If it was like most castles, the maester would live right by it. She had to hope he wasn't there.

She paused as she passed a window looking down onto the courtyard. Here she could see who the new arrival was. Given what the guard had said it seemed to be a sizable force of men. What lord could bring such a force.

She froze when she saw who came through the gate. Under the black stag on a golden field, her brother, Durran, was drawing his horse to a halt as Lord Tarly, his lady wife and the closes members of his household bowed to meet him. "My Prince," Lord Dickon said. "We had not expected your arrival."

"You know me, Lord Tarly," her brother joked, dismounting with a laugh. "I heard you were throwing a tourney here, how could I resist."

"I fear I planned too small for the likes of men you have brought with you, my prince."

"It may well be that we don't all compete, my lord," Durran said, his silver streak of hair glinting in the sun. "But I need something to distract me... given the departure of Uncle Stannis from this life."

"I understand completely," Lord Tarly replied, solemnly, "please, I will have chambers prepared for you, my prince."

"That is most kind, Lord Tarly," he replied, but I will not intrude, I shall sleep in my pavilion, it is already being set up."

Tarly nodded. "At least allow me to invite you to a meal this evening."

"I would be honoured to dine with you."

Cass snuck back into the shadows, letting the words drift away. If her brother was here with all his strength, there was no chance of rebellion, Lord Tarly's plan would be snuffed out. But first she had to send the raven to father, Durran didn't have the authority to act alone, he would need father's approval and authority, but to give it, he had to know what had happened, and the maester was down with Lord Tarly in the courtyard. She hurried towards the south east corner with the rookery tower. No one she met offered any resistance and she slipped up to the rookery.

It was a mess, the birds cawing from cages on either side and droppings on the hay strewn floor. There was a small desk with a rough wooden chair, the back left leg a little too small, waiting by the window. Most messages would be written away from the rookery and simply brought up to the birds when needed, but sometimes one needed to be written quickly, so there were often desks in the rookery. But, of course, there was no paper, then it would be easy. She cursed. The maester would likely have some paper in his turret. She rushed up there to find out.

The turret was ordered and organised with it's desks and implements set up neatly. There was a sheaf of papers on the desk, next to the stand and jar where one could melt the wax for the seal.

She was about to head over when she heard footsteps ascending the tower. She leant in to the door to listen. Sure enough, the footsteps were ascending, likely the maester on his way up. "Fuck," she whispered, looking around. Under the bed was no option here, the window led only to a great drop that would scatter her bones like crushed salt across the ground. The only place to hide feasibly was the rafters, great oaken beams criss-crossing the ceiling. The steps were getting closer. She took several steps towards the bed for a run up then charged at the door. She planted her foot above the handle and pushed, pulling herself up with the door frame at the same time. Not waiting for her momentum to slow, she leapt up, planted her feet near the top of the door and launched herself up at the rafters, catching hold of the lowest one and pulling herself up. She just got to one level higher when the door opened.

The smell of a venison stew with onions and cloves wafted up to her as she crouched low on the rafters to make herself as small as possible. The slim maester had brought a bowl of food up to his turret with him, likely because he had work to do here before he turned in. He set the bowl down at the table and took a quill from a jar of many and an ink pot and got them ready. He took a spoonful of stew and blew on it before popping it in his mouth. He moaned in appreciation and pulled some paper towards him. He hunched over it and started writing.

The man didn't leave the room for the rest of the day. He sat, he wrote, he ate, he read, once he even called out for a servant to fetch his plate, but through it all, Cass waited like a bat in the rafters. She waited as he worked, as the blue faded to orange through the window and down towards black. She watched as he yawned, headed over to the door, pulled a heavy key out from a thick cord around his neck and locked the door. She bit her lip in annoyance as he slipped the key under his pillow and pulled off his robes before lying down under the covers, blowing out the candle and plunging the room into darkness.

Cass blinked and tried to accustom herself to the shadow. Most would be completely blinded, but there was a little moon light coming through the window, and for a creature of the shadows, that was enough. She waited a little, listening intently to the maester's breathing until it had settled, then carefully made her way down.

She lowered herself gently to the ground, dropping the last three feet with a muffled thud. She paused, listening to the breathing to ensure the maester didn't wake. When he didn't she headed to the desk and felt around. Slowly she retrieved a piece of paper, two quills, an ink pot and the wax jar. She put them on the chair so they'd be easy to retrieve and then took one of the quills and headed over to the maester in the bed.

Sucking on her own tongue to fill her mouth with saliva, she pushed down gently on the mattress to work out where his head was. She put the tip of the quill in her mouth and lavished it with her tongue, wrapping it around the quill to give it an over-generous coating of saliva. With a light pop she took it out, she could see the saliva glistening in the moon light with it's thick sheen and carefully held it over the maester's face. She waited, angling the quill down gently, letting the saliva crawl towards the tip and gather in a thick droplet. When it got too heavy it broke from the tip of the quill and fell onto the maester's head.

With a moan he rolled away and like a sparrow hawk her hand dived under the pillow and claimed the key. She gently walked back over to the door and carefully unlocked it, pausing to make sure the click didn't wake the maester, but he slept on. She didn't want to risk going back to the bed, so when she felt her way back to the desk to get what she'd left on the chair, she left the key on the table. If the maester got suspicious it would be too late. She gathered what she needed and headed down to the rookery. She lay the things on the desk and lit the light under the wax jar, heating the dark green wax of Tarly and providing a little light.

She quickly scrawled a letter to her father.

 _Father,_

 _Something is happening here at Horn Hill. What exactly it is I don't know, but I'll keep looking. But I've had to risk sending you this missive to inform you that one of your Justiciars, Josua, has been seized by Lord Tarly when he objected to his ruling. I'm sending you his pin as proof. Come quickly and sort the issue. You needn't bring too many men, Durran is here and will be able to help. But please, Tarly is planning something, but you have all you need to end it now._

 _Your Daughter in the Shadows,_

 _Cass_

She dusted the ink and blew on it to let it set, then put the pin in the middle and folded it in such a way that it wouldn't fall out mid flight. She poured the thick wax in and sealed it with the ring her father had given her long ago. He'd recognise it, even if no one else did. She then found one of the ravens that flew for King's Landing and carefully attached the missive, letting it fly from the window. It could be at King's Landing in days, and father would know soon enough and this whole matter would be settled. Perhaps if she could get to Durran they could hold off whatever was going to happen long enough for him to arrive.

She quietly returned the maester's things to his chamber, setting them as best she could see, where they were, though it was not exact in the dark. Then she slipped out eager to return to the brothel where her whore would be waiting for her.

She got onto the battlements with no trouble, but there she was confronted by four Tarly men at arms. "Stop!" One of them called. "Who are you?"

She didn't answer. She hadn't expected to get caught on the walls.

The guard drew his sword. "Answer me, intruder."

There was no way he'd let her go. She couldn't give him an answer that he would believe and let her go for. She drew her sword. The three other guards did likewise.

"Take her," the second guard said and they rushed at her. She moved to meet them, the battlements to the right and the courtyard to the left.

Her blade flashed in her hand as she checked one blow and ducked under another. The walkway was only large enough for two of them to fight her at once and she used that. She cut low at the leg of the guard on her right, and swerved from a thrust from her left. She backpedalled as the two guards pushed her backwards. Both guards came at her from above, but in the darkness they couldn't co-ordinate properly. She guided the right hand guard's blade into the stone battlements and ducked under the one from the left. She lashed out with her foot, catching that guard in the throat who dropped his blade, clutching his throat, spluttering. He stepped back and fell over the edge, still spluttering, to his death. The guard already attacking her thrust at her but the two behind weren't ready. She swerved from the thrust, leaping forwards and driving her sword into the throat of the first guard behind, keeping up the charge and slamming her shoulder into the other, smashing him into the battlements and cutting across his throat. Seizing her chance to end it she leapt onto the battlements and off again, spinning into the air and driving her blade into the chest of her final enemy, slamming him into the stone.

She panted as she drew her sword free. A quick glance told her there were no more so she knelt an cleaned her blade of on her foe's surcoat. It was a waist, a damn bloody waste, but better three dead guards than a rebellion later. If she had surrendered and Lord Tarly had captured her, her father may well have killed everyone in the castle in punishment, including those four men. Not that that would mean much to their families. But she was her father's angel in the shadows. She'd killed before, and would again if it served him.

But she had to go now, she couldn't be found here. With luck, tomorrow she could find her brother and they could stop this, but for now, she had to escape.

Back at the brothel she found Leilen lying in bed snugly, but she sat up like a bolt when she entered and took of her cloak. "Where have you been?" She asked with a pout. "I was lonely and had to kiss my pillow for comfort. I hope your suitably jealous."

Cass smiled at her. "Oh very jealous," she said, stripping down as she headed to the bed. "But if anyone asks, I've been here all the time."

"Oh," Leilen asked, an eyebrow shooting up. "And why would I say that."

"Here's why," she replied, ducking her head under the covers.


	12. Seeds of Rebellion 4

Lord Tarly had launched a full investigation into the deaths of his guards. Nothing was announced, but soldiers in Tarly garb began walking the towns of silk and stone. They said they were to keep order, but Cass knew the real reason. Four of Tarly's men had been killed by her, they were looking for the culprit.

She spent the first day afterwards with Leilen, at every moment of pleasure she closed her eyes and imagined hair like a silver waterfall and amethyst eyes. Perhaps Leilen worked out that she was fantasising about another, perhaps not, either way, she did her job perfectly.

The next day she went to see her brother. Durran had to be told what was going on, he could help father put a stop to it.

The tent town was calm in the morning dawn light, a few squires here and there preparing the breakfasts and horses of their masters. The camp looked smaller than it had the previous day. She knelt down at a patch of downtrodden yet mostly dry grass. She ran her fingers over it, testing the dampness, feeling around for holes in the ground. Her fingers slipped into the cold dry hole made by the tent peg. Someone had left, and from the patch, this was a large tent. Strange, to have gone to the effort of gathering here only to leave, particularly if treason was planned, had she been wrong about any further treason? She shook herself. If there wasn't it didn't matter. The Justiciars were under the King's protection, an extension of her father's self, to imprison one was not permitted.

Her brother's mesnie was all still here. The younger of the knights were already out with blade in hand, the elder were taking their time, but would come eventually. She made her way to her brother's tent, walking with purpose, hood pulled up to conceal her features. Some glanced her way, but not more than once. She'd left her weapons behind. A woman with an obvious weapon in a amp full of young knights was not a wise one, the story of Danny Flint was sung for a reason.

Her brother's tent was unguarded so she pulled back the flap and slipped inside. Durran looked up from where he was sat with two others she recognised as Ned and Hoster. "Who are you?!" Ned demanded, leaping to his feet and drawing his sword.

"Peace, Ned," she said, holding up one hand and pulling down her hood with the other.

"Cass?" Durran asked, seemingly unnerved by her appearance. "What are you doing here?"

"Is that how you greet your own sister, don't I get a hug?"

Durran sighed. "Ned, Hoster, we'll continue this later." Hoster nodded stiffly, marching out of the tent, followed tentatively by Ned. Both seemed on edge, presumably having heard of the deaths of the guards. What are you doing here, Cass?" Durran asked, "did father send you?"

"Not exactly," she replied. "But there is something I need to talk to you about."

"Sounds serious," he said, indicating Ned's chair.

She sat down, glancing at the tent entrance to make sure they were alone. Durran's mesnie could be trusted, but Tarly could have men in the camp. "I think Lord Tarly's planning treason."

Durran's eyes widened in alarm. "Treason?"

She nodded. "He's imprisoned a Justiciar, and I think there's more to this meeting than a tourney."

"Slow down," he said, holding out his hand, his black and silver hair framing his confused features. "What do you mean he's imprisoned a Justiciar?"

She took a breath. She could take her time. So she explained. "Many of the lords gathering here are suspected of having treasonous tendencies, Marlon's been keeping an eye on them. When I arrived I heard that a Justiciar had been imprisoned. I investigated, found him in the dungeon."

He shook his head. "You always were capable of getting where you needed. But how do you know this man was a Justiciar?"

"He had his pin still."

He held out his palm, "show me."

"I already sent it to father."

"You what?!"

She jumped at the sudden cry. "I had to tell him."

He took a breath. "I'm sorry but I have no proof here that Lord Tarly has been anything but the gracious host." Then he shot her an angry gaze. "Hang on. Lord Tarly lost four men two days ago just outside the rookery tower. Was that you?"

She nodded. "They caught me leaving the tower."

"Hell, Cassanna," Durran cursed. "You killed four people."

"I've killed before."

"Don't sound so proud," he snapped. She saw anger on his face. "Killing someone is not something to be proud of. Ever."

"Four people or thousands consumed by rebellion, it was an easy choice."

"A rebellion you have no idea will happen," he replied. "Cass, you keep using that word, "rebellion" but you've shown me nothing of the sort. I've seen nothing of the sort. I can't act on simply your word without proof. Father undoubtedly will, but I will not. The lords of the land deserve better than that."

"Many of those lords would see father brought low."

He scoffed. "Don't say things it that when you know full well that they have real grievances with him."

"He is their _king._ "

"And their protector," Durran replied. "That is his duty, but it can be difficult to see someone as your protector when they are standing on your throat with an iron boot."

"Why are you saying this?" Cass asked. "You may not always have agreed, but he is your father. And one day you will be king."

Durran nodded. "I will," he confirmed. "But for now I am prince of Tarth. I am one of his vassals, and I feel much of their pain. Father wasn't a vassal for long before he became king, maybe that's why he doesn't seem to know the pressure he puts on them. Why some of them would be driven to rebellion."

 _Now you've said the word_. The thought flashed across her mind with the whip of a winter's wind. _It can't be._

"Durran, are you involved with this?"

Now he just looked exasperate. "With what?"

"The rebellion."

He froze, his face a statue as he stared at her. "My own sister. You really think I'm involved in this so called rebellion against father?"

She took a breath, steeling herself. "Are you?"

She choked as Durran's right hand wrapped around her throat. His face was in hers and in it flashed an anger that burned as hot as her father's vengeful eye ever did. He leant in close. "I'm not going to grace that with an answer." She cried out in pain as he threw her to the floor. She coughed, raising her hand to her throat as she struggled to get her breath and her balance back. "Apologise for that or get out, sister."

That wasn't the Durran she knew. "Why?" She asked.

"I said get out." No denial.

There was one thing she could try. One thing that might make Durran reveal the truth. "Durran, whatever you want, this isn't the way," she pleaded. "Father will acknowledge you publicly if you help him stop thi-"

"You think this is some plea for atten-" He froze and fell silent. He turned from her. "There is more to it than that."

"Durran..."

He turned to her, a steely sorrowful look on his face. "It should never have had to come to this, but father isn't listening. He holds to private council, lords from anywhere other than the Stormlands or the Crownlands can never receive his patronage or ear. He exploits contested inheritances to secure wealth for the crown, and he ignores the men who provide him service as long as it suits him. He thinks he can bend the realm through force and will alone. There is more to it than that, these men who are providing soldiers and tax have the right to be heard, and he isn't listening. I've tried raising the issue with him. Not even for his son and heir did he change his mind and ways."

"Durran, this isn't the way. Gather a petition, come and ask in open court, or keep talking. Deposing father is not the answer."

"I do not seek to depose father, but the way he is ruling... it must be curbed, the nobility are being bent but they will not break without war."

"You think this can end in your favour with father still on the throne?" She was incredulous. After what he had said, did he think father would listen to an army?

"Its not in my interest to depose father," Durran insisted, "nor is it in my interest to let him give the nobility more reason to."

"Please Durran, for your mother, for your brothers. Robert is a squire, you would really bring him into this? Your son is on Tarth, far from your reach. Your wife as well."

He was dismissive. "Father will not hurt Laena or Stannis," he said. "He needs them. If he takes them into custody, then they will remain comfortable prisoners until I march into King's Landing."

"Laena wouldn't want-"

"Cass I know you like to think that you know my wife intimately. But she is _my_ wife, not yours. She is loyal, and would follow my decisions before listening to you." That blade cut deep. "Besides, whether she would want it or not, she is my wife and she'll obey. She already has, she's never told father about this."

"She knows!?"

"Not the details, but enough."

Laena couldn't support this. She'd always loved peace, she'd been captured and her father murdered by rebels. "You were captured by traitors to father, or have you forgotten?"

"Laena and I were captured by those determined to restore the Targaryen dynasty despite everything. Those with me are more than that, many of them fought against the Targaryens, under father and grandfather. We do not seek to overthrow him, only to stop him. He is going too far. If he is not stopped, many may think that the Baratheon dynasty is just as unfit to rule. I do this for father as much as against him."

She heard the conviction in his tone. "I won't be able to get you to stop this, will I?" Her tongue was never her greatest weapon.

"It's too late. Tarly knew something was wrong. One of his ravens to King's Landing was missing. It's already begun. The men are being called and gathered." He looked at her sadly. "I'm sorry that it came to this, but father must be stopped."

She steeled herself. "I could stop you now."

"No you can't," Durran replied. "Even if you had the will to strike down your own brother, you don't have the skill, you haven't been as skilled as me for years." He rested his hand on the pommel of his sheathed sword, and she knew he spoke the truth. Her brother was a warrior first and foremost; four guards in the dark was one thing, but against her brother, when he had a sword and she didn't, she'd be defeated before any guards needed to arrive and assist their prince.

"What happens now?"

Durran sighed. "You will leave. You are my sister, despite everything. I am going to alert Lord Tarly that you are here as soon as you are gone. I know what you like and what you do, I know how to look for you and find you. Leave this tent, return to your brothel, kiss your latest conquest goodbye and return to father. Tell him what's happened."

"So it's war then."

He nodded. "Yes."

She turned and made for the entrance, then turned. "Survive, brother. Kill father or die and I"ll never forgive you."

He nodded. "Look after my wife and son, sister."

She nodded. "Always."

With nothing more to say, she left the tent and, as fast as she could without drawing undue attention, returned to the brothel.

Leilen was waiting for her again in the bed, the sheets wrapped around her naked form. "Your back," she whispered, eyes still closed, holding out her hand.

"I am," she said, ignoring the hand and gathering her sword and bow. "But I have to leave, now."

"Why?" She heard the rustling of sheets as Leilen sat up.

"I can't say," she said as she turned to face the blonde whore. "But I have to leave at once."

Leilen crawled across the bed to her, the sheets sliding from her form. "Do you want me to pleasure you one more time before you go?" she asked, a sultry smile on her face.

"I don't have the time," there was something more important that she had to do than that. "But thank you for the last few days you've been... magnificent."

She turned for the door but Leilen seized her wrist and pulled her back until she was flush against the naked body. Before she could speak Leilen had taken her face in her hands and pressed a kiss softly against her lips. Cass returned it gently but then pulled apart. "I have to go," she whispered.

"I know, just be careful," Leilen said.

Cass pulled out a small pouch with half a dozen silver stags in it. "Take care of yourself, Leilen."

Before the beauty could pull her in for another kiss, Cass left. She had to get to father. He thought he would be coming to stop a dissident lord. If she didn't reach him he'd be walking into the jaws of a full blown rebellion, led by his own son.


	13. Seeds of Rebellion 5

She left Horn Hill entirely the reverse of the way she entered. Her hood was down and her horse galloping at full tilt. She rushed north, likely getting a few looks on the way, but this time what the people on the road were doing meant nothing to her, insignificant nothings compared to her goal.

Once a fair distance away, she slowed her horse. Speed was of the essence, but she couldn't kill the horse, she just needed enough distance between her and Horn Hill that Lord Tarly's men wouldn't catch her, then what mattered was reaching father with good distance. The rebels were already gathering their soldiers, ravens would be flying from Horn Hill to every rebel lord they could reach, who would pass the message on if necessary. Meanwhile her father would be on the road, blissfully unaware that armies were being gathered against him.

It was the worst place for him to be. She was her father's agent, but she had no authority to use a castle's ravens, and if they had so misjudged the loyalty of her own brother, who could they trust? She had to reach father herself. He'd be marching along the Roseroad with a few thousand men and arms, not enough to face against the rebels, he'd be captured and Durran would win the war before father had ever had the chance to fight it. But one rider could move faster than hosts of knights and footmen, she would reach father first, she had to. Muttering a prayer to the warrior to protect her, she sped off north to the Roseroad.

* * *

She met her father a week of hard riding later. Five thousand men were at his back, most men at arms and knights of the order, a strong division of infantry, perhaps one and a half thousand, with another five hundred knights of the order with him. The rest of the host was made up of archers, footmen and outriders from the area around King's Landing. It would have been enough to put Horn Hill under siege, but not nearly enough to face a full blown rebellion.

Their camp was neatly confined to the side of the road, with ample sentries and watchmen ready to spot any attacker. The tents of the soldiers were ordered in rows and she saw siege engines, at least one great ram, carts of ladders and a trebuchet covered furthest from the road. She was intercepted by five outriders just out of sight of the camp. They were uncertain of who she was, but when she surrendered her blade and bow they agreed to escort her back to the king.

Outside the tent were two of the Kingsguard. She recognised the veteran Ser Balon Swann and Ser Garlan as well. "Lady Cassanna?" Balon asked, alarmed at her presence. "What are you doing here, we had thought to meet you when we invested Horn Hill."

She shook her head. "Things are worse than I said in my missive, I must speak to father, now!"

Balon nodded and took her inside the tent.

".. and in the morning we'll send riders ahead to tell the other lords along the way that we are not there to harm their territories or castles and that they should not be alarmed," she heard father say as they entered. Around him was Lord Wendwater, who's levies she'd seen in the camp, Lord Rosby and Lord Mornen as well as several veterans of the order, commanding those forces and two more of the Kingsguard, including Lord Commander Beric the Dragonslayer. They all looked up when she entered. "Cass?"

She nodded. "It's me father."

"What are you doing here, I thought you would wait at Horn Hill."

She shook her head. "I had to find you father, you're walking into a trap, this is more than a simple disobedient lord who seized one of your justiciars. This is a full scale rebellion."

The lords in the tent looked at each other, bemused. "Rebellion," her father repeated. "That's rather... melodramatic."

"I'm not being dramatic father!" She insisted. "The lords we've been watching... this wasn't just some gathering at Horn Hill, it was setting out the final conditions for the rebellion. The ravens have flown and the rebels have scattered to raise their soldiers."

"How do you know this?" Beric asked. "You can't have followed you and I doubt the rebels let you in on their plan."

She bit her lip. "Their leader told me... told me why they were doing this... there was nothing to stop it."

Her father's eyes narrowed. "Lord Tarly just told you?"

"Lord Tarly isn't the leader father."

"He isn't?" Lord Wendwater asked.

"Who leads them then?" Her father added.

She looked at those around the table. "Perhaps... alone father."

Her father glanced at them. "If this is rebellion then we'll all find out eventually. Who is it? Who has been able to raise the lords, and how was this possible. Marlon informed me that the would be traitors have no leader. So who has been able to galvanise them?"

She closed her eyes and took a breath. Her father was strong. But still... this was not a moment she would wish on him. "Durran," she whispered. Despite it being a whisper it carried throughout the entire tent and it brought with it silence. Durran was a very old name. Some noble stormlords were now naming their children Durran to be like the Prince. But there was only one who could possibly organise a rebellion.

Everyone looked at her father who had frozen. He was staring into her eyes with a gaze as hard as mountain stone. Everyone looked at each other, wondering what was going to happen, but not daring to say anything, while she and her father stared at each other. She pushed the truth into her eyes, begging him to see it, not declare her a liar. He parted his lips. "Cass. Beric. Stay. Everyone. Out."

Everyone left as fast as they could without running, leaving only the King, the Dragonslayer and the bastard daughter behind.

"Say that again," he said.

"It's Durran, father."

"Wh... who can he call upon?" His face didn't move an inch apart from his red and black lips.

"I... what?" Had she heard that correctly

Her father took a breath and spoke slowly. "How many lords have rallied to Durran's side?"

 _Father, your_ son _is working against you, do you have nothing else to say?_ "If he has the lords on our list, more than two dozen, and that doesn't take into account his mesnie. All over Westros, he could have half the realm up in arms against you."

"Jasper," Beric spoke. The knight was greying rapidly, but still was a warrior of note. He had been visibly shocked when she'd said Durran's name. "This changes everything. We must turn around. Return to King's Landing, send word with one of the ravens we brought, tell them to call all loyalists to arms, alert your castellans to ready themselves and prepare for war once more."

Her father got to his feet. "Do so. At once. Cass, you may have my tent this night. You'll be tired I'm sure." He swept out past her and into the night.

She made to follow him but Ser Beric took her shoulder gently. "Leave him for now. He needs to think this through alone."

"But-"

"No buts. Your father needs to come to terms in his own way to this change. Give him this night, go to him tomorrow."

She wanted to object, but the Dragonslayer was her father's oldest friend. She would listen to him and speak with her father after he had had the night to think on the idea of his son rebelling against him.

* * *

The order was given to strike camp by the Dragonslayer. She found him directing the men of the Order in turning around the siege engines. "We can't leave these for the rebels to find."

"Lord Commander," she called out to him. Her night had been restful, rather more so than her father's was, she was sure. He turned to her. "Where's father?"

He pointed to the north. "Out across the Roseroad."

She nodded and walked as fast as she could out that way. Her father was visible from the camp, though he was quite some distance away, standing alone in the field across from them. She made her way over. His back was to her and he seemed to be staring north, still as a statue. "Father," she said when she was close enough for him to hear. He held out his hand and beckoned her forward.

Last night his face had been frozen like stone, but now she saw the sorrow and pain behind the shadow and strength. "Durran," he whispered. "Why? I... always pushed him... wanted him to be ready... was I such a bad father to him?"

This was the weakest she'd ever seen her father. "Durran sympathises with the lords, father. He thinks you push them too hard."

"He only needs to wait," he whispered. "I won't be here forever, he will be king one day."

"He says he doesn't seek to depose you, father," she told him. It didn't make any difference to him. "He only wants you to listen to them."

"Do I know him at all? I had no idea he felt this way... felt so strongly." He shook his head. "What does that make me? A father whose own son could ferment a rebellion against him. Not even the worst Targaryens faced armed rebellion from their own offspring. No King of Westeros has had to force his own son to his knees in war."

She approached him tentatively. "You mean to fight him?"

Her father looked at her, sorrow and strength hard in his gaze. "I must. Durran may not want me deposed, but those who answer his call do. A king must protect his vassals, and Durran must keep them safe. They see me as a threat to be removed. Durran may have no choice but to follow them. And I will not go meekly to my end."

"If you fight you could die."

He came over to her and gently cupped her cheek. "Have no fear my daughter. I will die eventually, but not here. After all I've done, all I've tried to achieve... I will not die at war with my own son."

She leant in to her father and wrapped her arms around him. Then, when he relaxed, she gave a yank and pulled him down to the ground with her. "Wha-" He caught himself and rolled off her so he was at her side before he crushed her. "What was that for?"

"You used to do this with me when I was younger. I miss it sometimes."

Her father didn't exactly smile, but there was a twitch at his lips and his eyes sparkled a little. "A different time, so long ago, almost like another lifetime. We used to look up at the clouds together."

"Why me?"

He let out a breath. "I felt guilty. Unlike my others, you had no mother to be with in your youth, and you were alienated from the court by the circumstances of your birth."

"Is that why you never did it with Durran, he had a mother?" She asked.

"No," he sat up. "Durran... he was meant to be better than me, a better ruler. In many ways he is. I couldn't coddle him. He had to know hardship, he had to be toughened. Perhaps I was a little too hard on the boy. But he is stronger for it." He gave a scoff in his chest. "Perhaps I made him strong enough to defeat me."

"Father," she began. He was still the more veteran warrior of the two.

"I don't intend to lose, Cass, don't worry." He got to his feet and held out his hand to her, she took it and he pulled her up. "The rebels will be defeated, they will remember who is their king and Durran will be brought into line. When they have been defeated, I will hear what they want to say."

"You will?"

He nodded. "I will. If I have driven them to rebellion then I have done something wrong. That was never my intention."

"If you tell Durran-" She began.

"No," he replied at once. "I will listen on my terms, not with the threat of swords hanging over me. First they will be defeated and punished. Then, when brought back into the King's Peace, I will listen to what they have to say."

She nodded. "I am yours father. I will help you."

He kissed her forehead. "Thank you," he whispered. "Don't worry, Cass. I'll bring your brother back, he will learn his mistake, but I will bring him back, in chains if neessary."

* * *

 _Extract from "A Vengeful and Just King" – Chapter 10 – Kin Strife_

Many have judged Jasper's retreat from the outbreak of the Prince's Revolt as a carefully planned move designed to draw his son to him to swiftly defeat him that ultimately failed. However, a careful look at the sources around the event and it seems far more likely that the father was caught flat footed by the rebellion of his son. Jasper had faced betrayal before, even from close family, but for his own son to turn against him and side with the nobles that Jasper had thought of for many years as hindrances at best and foes at worst, must have struck deeply, and his retreat was just that, a retreat.

But Jasper, though past his physical prime, was still a soldier. He had a core of loyalists in the south and east and over the sea, an order of knights sworn to him and a treasury built up over several years of peace, and he would use them all to defeat his wayward son.

 _Extract from The King of Laws: The reign of Durran I and the first Westerosi Parliament – Chapter 3 – The Prince of the Lords and Lands_

It was written by some at the time that Durran was persuaded into his rebellion by those lords solely as a means of striking against his father, and that he was merely a figurehead of the rebellion, used to show that even the King's own family was fighting against him. While it was certainly true to say that the Durran's relationship with his father had never been as strong as his relationship with his closest friends, to say that he was prodded into rebellion by lords without any input is to do the man a great disservice.

Such a rebellion, organised on such a grand scale would not have been possible without the prince's active support for some time. He used the tourney field to build up relationships, meet other disaffected lords and gain support by utilising chivalry and the martial nature of the lords of the land. In this way Durran actively sought out those who felt scorned by his father and drew them into his powerful coalition alone. Durran's charisma and martial talent helped forge the rebellion, his years on the tourney field had hardened his body and honed his mind to the necessities of war. The man leading this rebellion was no helpless puppet of disaffected lords. He was a warrior and leader in his own right, a lesson that his father would learn when the war began in earnest.


	14. Interlude: Kin Strife

**A/N: Okay so there's a short time gap between Seeds of Rebellion and Father against Son, the next segment. The reason for this is that Durran's rebellion lasts longer than a year and is broad in scope, so would be a whole story if I were to tell it beginning to end.**

 **While that would be doable, I have also started publishing A Song of Three Sons, and I don't want to delay too much on that while writing a full blown sequel. So instead I've given another extract from Jasper's biography that sets out the events of the first 'half' of the rebellion and then Father against Son will pick up from the second 'half' for want of a better term, to the end.**

 **I hopefully won't be too long in publishing that, real life permitting. After Father against Son I have two other short stories planned, but writing may slow a little from my recent pace so I can keep up with ASOTS as well as this. If you want to go check it out and haven't, the first chapter is up just go through my profile or the book portal on the site. Until next time, stay safe.**

 **Psykic Ninja**

* * *

 _Extract from "A Vengeful and Just King" - Chapter 10 - Kin Strife_

"The storm broke three weeks past the new year of the three hundred and twenty second year after the Conquest, and twenty two years into the reign of King Jasper the First of his Name. Across the whole of his Kingdom of Westeros the followers of the crown prince rose against their lord, his father, and laid waste his land with sword and rapine and fire; they laid siege to his castles and took them by storm when none came to relieve them."

Those are the words written by Maester Harlan of Highgarden, who noted the rebellion of Prince Durran in his chronicle of the Baratheons of Highgarden. Looking back at the beginning of the rebellion, it is actually very clear that the Prince was likely the only man who could raise the rebellion against his father. Jasper I had sought to reinforce his dynasty's power by placing Baratheons in power throughout the south. The stag held the lordships of the Stormlands, the Crownlands and the Reach, almost an insurmountable block of power to draw from. On top of that he was married to the sister of the Young Wolf, he was the half brother to the lord of the west and the lord of the Iron Islands and Dorne owed their positions to him and him alone. Against an external threat, this power bloc would be all but unassailable, but suddenly the family was rent asunder and the power base with it, for suddenly the lords of the realm were faced with a choice unlike any before. Did they support the Prince and his changes at the risk of angering the current king, who was known for exploiting chances like a failed uprising to increase his power. Or did they throw their weight behind King Jasper and risk the displeasure of King Durran when he ascended the throne. Jasper's coalition could not make the choice alone, and so it divided, as lords chose to rally behind the Prince or the King, the father or the son.

Prince Durran and the rebels conceived of a broad and ambitious plan that took the initiative against his father, and took advantage of the fractious nature of the rebellion. They would seize the isolated royal castles across the south while at the same time launching and invasion of the Crownlands to keep Jasper from mobilising to assist them. When they took the rest of Westeros, they could then unite their large hosts and bear down on the King's smaller host to force his surrender.

From the west, Lords Ashemark, Brax and Serrett invested the Golden Tooth and it"s royal garrison, which held out for two weeks before capitulating, leaving the pass into the Riverlands firmly in the hands of the rebels. Control of this pass allowed the free movement of soldiers and supplies to the rebel lands. Lord Tommen Lannister was not present to rally soldiers to either side, having been called to the Iron Islands to help put down a rebellion by the supporters of the Old Way against the rule of Blacktyde. Looking at the timing, one must wonder if the Prince supported this rebellion in order to keep the Iron Islands, and his father's garrisons on it, subdued.

While the Golden Tooth was taken, Lords Prester and Parmen moved to battle the forces of House Westerling and Banefort who remained loyal to the king and set about raiding the forces and lands of the rebels while their armies were away at the Tooth and the Rebellion.

However, while Lord Tommen was not there to decide which side to choose, Lady Shireen actively supported her cousin and King. She raised the armies loyal to her, including the Oakhearts, Florents and her own men ready to battle the rebels. Her own son was riding with the Prince, so we must wonder if her act of loyalty to the king was to ensure that her family was on the winning side. Harlan writes that she acted out of "true loyalty to her cousin and king who was her liege lord," but this must be taken with a pinch of salt given the outcome of the rebellion, and Harlan's loyalty to the Baratheons of Highgarden.

But this support would come to little in the end. In a swift ride across the Reach, Prince Durran caught the gathering loyalists unprepared outside the walls of Highgarden and put them to rout. This act not only protected his western flank, but such a swift and unexpected victory brought more support to the Young Prince's side.

In the Riverlands, Lord Tully, refusing to battle his own son and heir who rode at the Prince's side, declared for the rebels. It was in the Riverlands where the majority of the new royal castles were found and they were all placed under siege. Rubyhold, Castellon and Kingstone were taken swiftly by Tully forces and his bannermen, Rubyhold granting control of the crossing of the Trident at the Ruby Ford. We can see the rebels" tactics here are just as they were at the Golden Tooth, take the crossroads and bottlenecks of the Kingdom to divide and destroy their enemies. Lady Bracken, who pledged loyalty to the King, was taken prisoner by Lord Blackwood and Lord Mooton's town of Maidenpool was set to siege. But the toughest nut to crack was Harrenhal. The old grand fortress controlled the Kingsroad and the God's Eye, making it a key strongpoint for the loyalists. King Jasper had recognised this, for the castle was the headquarters of the Order of the Stag, and at the time of the Rebellion was guarded by eight hundred knights of the Order, and we must assume four to five times as many foot soldiers. Harrenhal would hold out throughout the rebellion, frequently launching sorties against the rebels while severely hindering the rebel movement.

Other support for the rebels rose in Dorne and the Vale, but this was minor, and clearly never intended to succeed, only to hold up possible loyalist soldiers there. The North was an unknown factor. From what records have survived, it seems that there were no rebel risings in the north. Perhaps the Prince was banking on the fact that the Young Wolf would not fight against his nephew for his brother by marriage, or perhaps he hoped to win the war by the time the North was ready to intervene.

But the crux of the Prince's plan was the Crownlands, in particular the new Crownlands added at the end of the last war. It had to be wrested from the King's control. While he controlled this vital territory, Jasper could hold them back along the Mander, and send reinforcements to his garrisons in the Riverlands and Reach. He could fight the war on his terms and his enemy's land. Jasper was a skilled war leader and new the importance of such advantages on the field of battle and would have imparted them to his son, who now used them against him with brutal efficiency.

Jasper had large frontiers to defend and had to face a number of local insurrections across his vast domains, while the rebels had the ability to concentrate their forces. Prince Durran planned a three pronged invasion of this key territory. First Durran tore across the Mander and raided inland, with a large force of knights at his disposal, he smashed any loyalists he could find aside, forcing them to retreat to the King's position nearer King's Landing. He was followed by his loyal Reacher lords like Tarly, Rowan and Norcross who began to invest the loyalist strongholds in the west of the Crownlands. After Harrenhal was placed under a loose siege, Lord Blackwood led a strong force of Rivermen to assault the northern part of this territory.

That Prince Durran was able to gather such a force of soldiers and launch campaigns so swiftly and decisively speaks to his talent as a military leader. While his father was pulling together his forces, Durran was attacking continually, and none of the chronicler fault his valour in the war with his father. Maribald of Maidenpool comments that "the great valour with which the Prince distinguished himself was muddied only by him distinguishing it against his own lord father."

Unfortunately for the prince, he faced stiff resistance from the garrisons of the Crownlands and his forces were bogged down by besieging fortress after fortress. Knowing the importance of this region to the security of his southern realms, being sandwiched between the Stormlands and the Crownlands while reaching south towards the Dornish Marches and north to the Riverlands, King Jasper had spent large amounts of money and on upgrading the castles of his vassals there. The smallest of these castles, Dewhold, had been a stout keep before, but Jasper's expansions had expanded it to include a strong stone wall with four towers and a garrison of one hundred and fifty soldiers.

One by one, the rebel assaults stalled as they took castle after castle from the rebels. The range of influence of a castle is not, as might be expected, an arrows distance from the walls, but rather a day's ride in every direction. Knights could ride out and cause much damage and devastation before retreating back inside with minimal losses. An untaken castle could derail an entire campaign, so the Rebels had to take, invest, or agree a truce with all of King Jasper's newly updated fortresses. Even Durran himself and his force of mounted knights struggled to maintain his momentum, as even he had to settle down to besiege the town of Marlebrook. Here the fortune of war struck against the Prince, for when the rebellion had been declared, Lord Willas Langward had professed sympathies for his cause, but in the town was Justiciar Willem Telkon, who had the lord seized and arrested and took command of the garrison. The Justiciars owed nothing to the Prince, and Willem would hold out for the rest of the war.

These holdouts gave just the breathing room that the King's supporters needed. At King's Landing, Jasper put his fleet to sea, and they descended on his son's Island of Tarth, home of his wife and son, making both hostages and capturing and sinking the ships that had been raiding his eastern coast. But the real coup for the King would be in the Riverlands. The garrison at Harrenhal was strong, and led by the Lord Commander of the order, Ser Richard Horpe, a veteran knight in his fifties. During one of the many sorties the order launched against their besiegers, Ser Richard broke through the rebel siege lines with two hundred knights of the order and raced south. Believing that the threat of the order was contained at Harrenhal, Lord Blackwood's rivermen in Durran's crownlands campaign had been sloppy at watching their rear. At Tumbleton, the knights fell upon the unsuspecting rebels and torched their supplies. Food, fodder, arrows and siege engines gathered for the assault all went up in smoke.

This blow saved the Crownlands, which, under pressure from the rebels, looked set to fall in the first months of the war. Without supplies, the Rivermen were forced to withdraw to gather more, and with the garrisons in the north freed up, Durran's entire northern flank was exposed, forcing him to pull back towards the Mander and the rebels from the Reach. King's Landing was saved and the King had his breathing room.

But no one would have believed for a moment that the war was over after but a single campaign. Prince Durran had shown himself to be a valiant and shrewd commander and diplomat, and King Jasper, the warrior king, had not yet stirred from behind King's Landing's walls to lead an army in person. Perhaps fearful of further treasons, or unsure about the strength of his army, Jasper decided not to pursue his son west and instead bide his time. Meanwhile, the rebels re-organised and prepared to attack again, maintaining their sieges on Jasper's western fortresses. Durran had a charisma that Jasper had long since lost, he was popular and promised a better future, and he knew many were simply biding their time, waiting for one clear stroke towards victory in favour of his son to declare their allegiance to his son and bring his reign low.


	15. Father against Son 1

**Father against Son – 20 AVJ**

 **Arlan Baratheon**

* * *

He hit the floor with a grunt of pain.

"Damn it all," he cursed as he rolled over and pushed himself to his feet.

"Better, my prince," Ser Balon praised him, his Morningstar hanging by his side, the ball swinging on the end of the chain. "You nearly had me that time."

 _I've nearly had you for the last four times, I need to be better._ "Thank you, Ser Balon," he replied, taking up his poleaxe again and spinning it in his hand. "Again?"

The knight nodded and got into stance, the spiked ball swinging back and forth like a hypnotist's chain, his white shield a barrier between Arlan and the knight's body. "Go," he said.

Arlan advanced, using the point at the tip of his poleaxe to jab at Balon's face. As long as he forced Balon to defend himself, he had the advantage. After a few jabs he switched his stance, flipping the pole over and shunting his left leg forward. This time he thrust with the spike on the head of his weapon, jabbing at Ser Balon high and low to force him back. He spun the poleaxe again and brought the hammer down, but Balon had backed away too far and his blow swished through the air.

He backed up as Balon charged forward, his spiked ball of death swinging brutally at him. He used the haft of his poleaxe to try and throw the knight off balance, but there was no stopping Ser Balon's assault. He glanced one blow off the knight's helmet, but it didn't stop him, and Balon struck towards his waist.

Seizing his chance, he planted the point of his pollaxe in the ground and stood strong. The chain of the Morningstar wrapped around the haft and secured itself like a python around a branch. Gripping the haft tightly, he wrenched the Morningstar from Balon's grip.

Almost immediately Balon charged forward and slammed into him, slamming him to the ground again, his pollaxe flying from his grip. Before he could regain his footing, Balon was on top of him and he was beaten.

"Not as good as last time," Ser Balon said, pulling him to his feet.

He nodded. _I'll have to do better though_. The sound of clapping drew his attention.

"You're getting better, Arlan."

"Mother."

His mother was approaching in a conservative dress of grey and silver. Her brown hair was pulled back and flowed down her back, crow's feet beginning to claw at the edge of her eyes and her frame was softer than it had been in his youth. In her mid thirties, and never counted among the most alluring of women, his mother was approaching the end of her age of beauty, though he was sure she would be considered handsome for some time to come. She had used to train with him sometimes when both of them were younger, but it had been a long time since she had entrusted his training at arms to the White Swords. She wasn't smiling, but she had no reason to right now.

"Your Grace," Balon bowed.

"Ser Balon," she nodded at the knight, then turned back to him. "Your father wants to see you."

He nodded. "Is there news from... my brother?"

His mother's lips thinned into a line, but not of anger, rather one of sorrow. "News yes, word no. Your father intends to ride soon."

He took his mother's hand gently. She had been hit hardest by his brother's actions. Her husband against her eldest son, her sons against each other, how could she not feel disturbed and sorrowful. _Father is strong as always, and Cat doesn't understand. But Mother knows all. How trapped she must feel, how helpless._ "Don't worry, mother." He told her. "Brother will come to his senses."

His mother squeezed his fingers but said nothing.

The Small Council chambers had been taken up by lords bannermen and knights of renown and talent. Knight Commander Rollen Harle, a subordinate of Lord Commander Richard Horpe stood at his father's right in the rainment of the order, while Lord Commander Beric the Dragonslayer was at his left. Lords Bryce Caron, Master of Laws and notable soldier was there, with his Kingsguard brother as well. Lord Wendwater, a family that owed much to his father, Lord Rosby and Lord Buckler stood as well. "Arlan," his father greeted him. The king alone was sat at the head of the table, his left hand raised to his face and his red and blue eyes flicking to him with only enough time for a brief nod before returning to the map. "So Dewhold and Barnerston have arranged truces with the rebels?"

"It is so, Your Grace," Grand Maester Gerold said, mournfully. "They say they could not hold any longer, but once these next two months are up, they will return to battling at your side."

"Durran won't wait that long," father muttered. "Truces are a risky affair, my son must be planning to advance soon or he'd not slow down the assault on the castles."

"Will he be coming here father?" Arlan asked.

His father nodded. "He has nowhere else to go at this point. If he heads north to the Riverlands he risks losing everything he has gained in the Crownlands and the Reach, and the forces he could bring to bear on Harrenhal wouldn't change the situation, unless he planned to attack, but that would be too costly for him. No, he will come for me here."

"Will we wait for him, Your Grace?" Lord Caron asked. "Break him against the Walls?"

The king shook his head. "No, I have waited long enough. I will not be seen as a impotent failure. If Durran can march on my seat without challenge others will join him. We will march out and face him on the field."

"Is such a thing wise, Your Grace, your brother has a great many rebel lords who have flocked to his banner."

"But make no mistake as to who is leading them," his father reminded them all. "Durran is a leader, not a follower. And thankfully he is my son. We can anticipate him. We know through my daughter that he intends to capture me, if we present him that chance, he may advance without being ready. Also he is the son. The victory at Highgarden was notable, but I have more victories to my name than he has fingers, if he retreats, he damages his cause. I will wait no longer. Go. Ready your men, we march in three days. These rebel lords will be brought into line, and my son brought to his senses."

The lords around the table bowed and departed, leaving Arlan with his parents and Lord Commander Beric. "You as well, old friend," Jasper told his Lord Commander. "I would be with my family now."

"Of course, Your Grace." When the door clicked behind the Lord Commander Beric, his father got to his feet.

"You're really going, Jasper?" His mother asked.

His father nodded. "Durran has to be brought back in. I have to go."

"Why is he doing this, father?" Arlan asked. His father had never touched on the topic before. "Why is he siding with the nobles?"

"Because he believes there is some justness in their cause. Perhaps there is, but this is not the way to go about it."

"But this makes him a traitor," Arlan protested. He shouldn't have been rising against his king at all, let alone his own father. _Father may be harsh. He may push the nobles, but he is not the Mad King, or the bastard born. This is too far. Brother..._

Jasper nodded. "But still your brother, and still my son." His father rested his hand on his shoulder. "I cannot deny that, and I won't forget it when I battle him."

"Nor will I, father," he promised.

"You will not be coming with me, Arlan," his father replied.

That was like a knife to the heart. "But father-"

"No," he relied firmly. "I march against Durran, and Robert is Durran's squire. I will _not_ have all three of my sons at risk in this battle. You will remain here, guard King's Landing in my stead. Keep your sister safe. And your mother as well."

"I- yes father," he said. His father was his king and he would obey.

His father nodded. "Lord Davos should be returning from Tarth shortly. Do not mistreat Laena or Stannis for the crimes of their father."

Ships from Tarth had been raiding the coast of the Crownlands since the start of the war. But the Royal Fleet was father's, and he had ordered what ships hadn't been sent to Andalos to be readied. Lord Davos had cautiously approached the island, fending off raids from the Island's ships and landed a small host there to invest the castle of the Evenstars. Laena had surrendered the castle after two weeks of siege. They were on their way back as comfortable prisoners. "I wont father, I swear."

He nodded, squeezing his shoulder tightly. "I know, Arlan. You are a fine man. A fine prince."

He couldn't help the smile that came onto his face with those words. His father's praise, how often had he sought that?

"How many men march with you, Jasper?" His mother asked.

His father was the king in again in that instant. "Fifteen thousand are outside the city now: Five thousand from the order, one thousand five hundred knights, and three thousand five hundred men at arms. Lord Caron has brought men from the Stormlands, three thousand longbowmen, half as many footmen and half again as many knights. Seven thousand men and arms from the Crownlands are here right now, mostly footmen and archers. I sent the knights ahead to secure the road and gather more men on the march. I should be joined by men from the south and the north. I also have a large force of hedge knights coming in; two thousand knights and squires."

"Was opening the treasury to Hedge Knights wise?" Arya asked. "They are fighting for coin."

"But they are fighters. I won't be able to match Durran soldier for soldier, so I must have more knights than he does. Besides, an empty treasury can be refilled. Once the crown is off my head, no one will put it back. I had hoped the reinforcements from Andalos would arrive, but without them, I need the Hedge Knights."

"And if the reinforcements do arrive?" She asked him.

"Send them to me as fast as you can," he replied simply.

She bit her lip and nodded.

* * *

Those three days took no time at all.

His father was just in the entrance of the Red Keep with his family, where the household couldn't disturb the royal family in these final moments before the King rode to war. With him rode five of the Kingsguard, the veterans Ser Roland and Ser Balon remaining behind to defend his family. His black armour was wrapped around his body like a glove, and his helm under his arm as he said goodbye.

"If our son dies out there," his mother whispered to him as her held her in his arms, just loud enough that Arlan could hear. "I'll never forgive you."

"I'll never forgive myself. I'll do whatever it takes to avoid that. But I must bring him back, either as a repentant rebel or as a prisoner."

She nodded in understanding. "I know." She pressed a quick kiss to his lips before stepping back with a nod.

The sound of weeping made him look down. Cat was crying beside him, her hair flowing down her back like an onyx waterfall, her dress was dark blue and white, vibrant and colourful, but it could not disguise the girl's sorrow. She didn't know what was happening, she couldn't fathom that her father was about to ride out to war against his own son. Her brother. That never happened in the songs, or stories or in all the lessons she had learned. He squeezed Cat's shoulder, but if she felt it she didn't show it. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand fiercely, but the tears didn't stop flowing.

Their father knelt before her. "Catelyn," he said, gently taking her thin arms in his armoured hands and taking them away from her face. "Look at me, sweetling." She sniffed but looked her father in the eyes, her own red and her cheeks flushed. "Don't cry Cat, you're far too pretty to cry."

"Then don't go, father," she pleaded with him in a whisper.

He moved his hands to her face, cupping it like it was the most precious thing in the world to him, brushing away her tears with his thumbs. "I have to go, Cat," he said, in a whisper of his own. "I have to bring your brother home. But I need you to be strong for me," he added. "I need you to be strong for your mother, and your brother." Cat slipped forwards and wrapped herself around their father's head. "You can't go," she said again, "not if I hold you here."

Father wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tightly. "I'm sorry, Cat," he said, sorrow breaking through. "But I'm coming home, I promise. I need you to be a princess, be strong like one until that day." He pulled back and held her shoulders at arm's length. "Be a good girl for me, Cat. Can you do that?"

She sniffed again. "I don't want you to go."

"I don't either," he said. "But I have to go, and you have to be strong. Can you do that? Can my daughter be strong for me? Can she be the perfect princess for me?"

She nodded. She was clearly still upset, but she was a Baratheon, her father's daughter. "I can father."

He smiled at her. "Good girl," he kissed her softly before standing tall again. Cat stepped back as their father stepped in front of him.

"Arlan, my son," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Every day I look on you, I swear you have grown beyond what you were. You are a warrior, a loyal son and a devoted brother. Any father would be proud to call you their own, but I am more proud than any to call you mine."

"Is that just because I am loyal and Durran is not?" Arlan asked.

His father shook his head. "You are your own man, and Durran is loyal in his own way. Do not try to be him. It is a mistake, one many have made, to try and _be_ another."

"Are you sure I can't come with you father?" He asked. He could be more loyal-more useful- on the battlefield, bringing Durran to his senses. Would it not show that Durran did not have universal support if the last loyal son rode alongside his father?

But his father shook his head and took him gently to one side. "I have to prepare for the worst," his father said. "It may come down to battle between myself and Durran, and Robert rides at Durran's side. If we... if we should all fall in the battle, then suddenly all I have striven for, all I have tried to achieve will be in the hands of a boy, a child three years old. Stannis will need a regency council. I cannot deny his mother that position. But you and your mother shall also sit there, as shall Beric. You must protect Stannis. Nurture him to be the next king if we should fall. And children are... delicate. If Stannis should succumb to illness. Then you will be the next king."

"That can't happen," he said at once. "You can't die father."

"I don't intend to," he assured him. "But I have to prepare. If the worst should come to pass, then you must take your brother's place. Wed Laena in his place, maintain the union of Baratheon and Targaryen. Keep the Kingdom together. Promise me... promise me that you will do this. Swear it."

He closed his eyes. His father was his king. If he gave an order... "I will, father. I swear, your legacy will not die. I will devote myself to it, as long as there is breath in my body, I shall fight to bring Westeros together as you envisioned it."

"So loyal... you're a fine son. I could remake this kingdom anew if my lords were half so loyal as you." He stepped back and looked at them all. "I shall return," he said to them, the king once again, the father hidden away. "Stay safe and strong, all of you." He turned and marched out of the front door, heading to his horse, his army, his son... and war.


	16. Father against Son 2

Ever since the army had marched, the Red Keep had been too quiet. The city below them waited with baited breath to hear of whether their King or their Prince was returning to them in triumph and which would be defeated. Even the servants of the Red Keep were hushed. Whom did they speak against now? Was to speak in favour of father to be treason to the son? War was all the worse when waged between a father and his progeny.

Thoughts like this often kept him awake, staring at the canopy of his bed in the dark of night. In many ways he was better off than those asking the question of who to support. In the end, if his father was defeated he was Durran's brother, he was in little danger, others did not have such luxury, and their choice in this war could deliver or damn them to the king or the prince.

The sound of shuffling bed covers to his left made him move a little to the right. _She shouldn't be here really_ , Cat was getting too old to be crawling into another's bed, but the way she'd looked at him, he couldn't deny her this. But it wasn't like she was trouble, far from it, she curled up into the smallest shape possible when she slept, tucking her head into her chest and bringing her knees up and folding her feet up under them.

" _She came into our bed more than a few times,"_ his mother had told him. _"She used to lie between your father and I and go to sleep there."_ He remembered the nights that Durran and Laena went missing, Cat had slept with their mother, then their father when he finally got some sleep. She was still a child then though, and it wasn't unusual. Now though, she should be growing out of it. But with father gone, and being told he was going to fight her brother, he could allow it. He rolled onto his side, facing away from Cat and closed his eyes, trying to get some fretful sleep, hoping that tomorrow would bring good news, or no news at all.

It did.

Ships crested the horizon at about midday, bearing the crowned Stag of Baratheon. The Royal Fleet had returned from Tarth, his brother's wife and son aboard. "I need you to meet them at the docks," his mother told him on her way to the Small Council chambers. "There are matters I must discuss. Please send Lord Davos to me when he docks."

"Of course, mother," he said.

Cat had wanted to come as well, meet her nephew and good-sister, but that was not possible. She had to arrive as a prisoner, a comfortable prisoner, but a prisoner none the less, not as a family member. He had an escort of men of the Order with him, two dozen serjeants ready to escort them through the city respectfully.

 _King Jasper's Sword_ , the four hundred oar war galley and flagship of the Royal Fleet entered the Rush flanked by _Seaswift_ and _Black Sail_. Longboats were set to the water and moved in to the jetties. He saw his good sister in the first of them, holding a small boy that could only be Stannis close to her side. Six men in House Seaworth garb sat with them, but not Lord Davos it seemed. One of them, a man he recognised as Lord Davos' heir, Dale, stepped from the ship and held out his hand to assist Laena, reaching down to take the boy up as well after she was on the jetty. He led them down the jetty to them. "My Prince," he said, bowing. "The prisoners from Evenfall Hall."

"Thank you, Ser Dale," he replied graciously. "I can take them from here. My mother wishes to speak with your father, the Master of Ships. Is he with you?"

A flash of pain crossed Dale's face. "My Prince... my father breathed his last a week after the fall of the Saphire Isle."

 _Lord Davos. Dead?_ He had been like Lord Stannis, older, but able, strong and willing to serve. "I-I am sorry for your loss, Lord Dale."

"Thank you, my Prince," he replied, bowing his head again. "He wasn't the same since Lord Stannis' death last year. I think age caught up to him in that moment. Then the rebellion... he had hoped it to be his last war, but not this way. I have sent his body to Dragonstone. I should be with him when he is interred."

"Of course," Arlan said. Durran didn't have a fleet to call upon, they could afford to let the Seaworths mourn their loss. "I shall inform my mother. Go, give Lord Davos my respects."

"Thank you, my Prince."

As the new Lord Seaworth turned back to the ship, Arlan turned to his brother's wife and son. "Sister," he said, bowing his head. "I hope you had a pleasant trip. Given the circumstances."

She cracked a small smile. "Trying, but given the circumstances, yes, it was a pleasant trip. She looked down at the child at her side. "Stannis, this is your uncle Arlan." Stannis stood taller than most three year olds, looked at him defiantly.

He knelt down. "I've been looking forward to seeing you, Stannis."

"Th-thank you, uncle," he said quietly. He didn't avert his gaze at all, looking him right in the eye.

"Chambers have been prepared for you, sister, and you nephew, the two of you will be perfectly comfortable until this... dispute is settled between my brother and father."

She nodded to him in thanks. "Thank you, brother. Please, if we may, as I said it's been a trying journey."

"Of course," he took them to where the carriage was waiting for them.

"Is that the Red Keep?" Stannis asked, looking up at the hulking fortress on the hill.

He nodded. "It is indeed, nephew. Prepare yourself, soon you will behold the seat of kings."

()()()

"My old chambers," Laena mused.

Arlan cracked a smile. "Mother thought it would be... the most comfortable place for you."

"They will serve well, Arlan, thank you."

"Of course," he said. "Your possessions are being brought up now. Unfortunately, I need you to remain here for now. I must go and speak with mother. I'll be back shortly. I told Cat I would let her see you, but if you'd rather not today-"

"Not at all," Laena cut across him with a smile. It will be wonderful to see her again, introduce her to Stannis."

It would certainly help take Cat's mind off this whole situation. "Then I shall bring her too."

His mother was with Ser Balon, taking the place of Ser Beric while he was with the King, the Grand Maester, the Master of Coin and the Master of Whisperers. Lord Seaworth was now dead, no new Hand had been chosen since Lord Stannis had died and Lord Caron was riding with the King, so it was a somewhat depleted council.

"Arlan," his mother greeted him with a smile, getting up and rushing over to embrace him. "How are our guests settling in?"

"Well mother, I mean to check on them later."

She nodded. "Good. And Lord Seaworth, is he coming?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not mother, Lord Seaworth has passed away, shortly after taking Evenfall Hall, he is being buried on Dragonstone by his family." His mother looked shocked. Lord Seaworth was never too close to her, but another blow so quickly had to leave it's mark somewhere. Father had once described him as "the most loyal man to have ever sat the council."

"Lord Davos is dead?" Balon asked, surprised.

"It seems the old guard are dying like flies," Lord Mooton commented dryly. "First Grand Maester Varwyn, then Lord Stannis, now Lord Seaworth as well."

Grand Maester Gerold's lips tightened at mention of Varwyn. Arlan remembered the old man. A cough had come over him one autumn day and he had succumbed to it some days later. He had always been a kind man, knowledgeable, it was he who had instructed him on history and law and sums, Durran too. But whatever his skills as Grand Maester, the fact remained he had been forced upon the Conclave. His father had all but forced the Conclave to accept it, though, still recovering from the damage done by the Ironmen, they had little time to organise a proper vote. But it likely still irked them how the choice had been ripped from them.

"Jasper will succeed, he always does," his mother said. "My brother is on the way, with ten thousand men with me. Robb will help him."

"But Ned is with Durran," Arlan pointed out. "Will uncle Robb fight against his own son?"

There was a pause around the table. "He makes a point, Your Grace," Ser Balon asked. "Will he, Your Grace?"

"My brother will not betray Jasper. I'm the one who asked him here."

"Even so," Ser Marlon added. "Many rebels stand between him and the King. It is likely that father and son will do battle before then."

"But we have more certain reinforcements on the way," his mother said. "The ship from the Royal Fleet said the reinforcements from Andalos will likely be here within the week, barring any storm on the narrow sea."

Balon nodded. "Unfortunately we don't know how many they bring. How many knights, bowmen and footmen, how many order men or who leads them."

"A matter for when they arrive," Balon said. "We shouldn't make plans on what we don't know."

His mother nodded. "Thank you for the information, Arlan," she said. "Please keep our new guests company."

He nodded. "Of course mother."

()()()

"I'm sorry," Laena said. They were stood in the godswood, watching Cat and Stannis playing together. Meeting her nephew seemed to have made Cat hay, she was laughing while playing knights and princesses with Stannis. He glanced down at her. She was watching her son with her alluring amethyst eyes. She hadn't passed any of her bloodline traits to her son, unless any siblings were born with them, the looks of Old Valyria would die with her.

"What for?"

"Durran," she replied.

"Ah," he said. "It's no matter, a wife is expected to support her husband. It is your duty to side with Durran in this conflict. I do not hold that against you."

"It's more than that," Laena said. "I tried to convince him that rebellion was not the way, but I agree with him."

"What?!"

Laena looked up at him. "Jasper is a strong king. But he is pushing people too far. What he did to the lands of House Uller was beyond evil. And this inheritance tax."

"He is King of Westeros," Arlan reminded her. "Lords hold land for him."

"Lords have held this land for a thousand generations before Orys Baratheon even arrived. They have held and ruled their lands in their families for millennia, and suddenly King Jasper is demanding that they pay for the privilege. He's erecting castles in their lands and holding castles in dispute and taking the taxes while he settles the matter and doesn't listen to petitions from them, not as they see it. Of course the Lords are angry."

"And Durran is a Lord until he is the king," Arlan finished.

"More than that," she said. "He fears for the future of the House of Baratheon. If Jasper is too hard on them... if they view him as a tyrant as your grandfather did my grandfather... how long will they permit it? If Jasper is declared to no longer be the King, will Durran be able to do so. If Jasper is deposed, does his line lose all legitimacy?"

"Do you really think that he is a tyrant?" He had never treated her or her father unkindly while here.

"None deny that he is an effective and strong ruler, but he's too much for some, and he does have the look of a tyrant. Your father's face doesn't bode well. I've never seen him without the corruption spreading across it. People look unkindly upon it when they first see it, and it is their first impression of him. They can't help it. People struggle to remember a time when his face wasn't corrupted, even those who lived at the time when it wasn't."

He knew that people muttered about his father's face. He himself had been scared of it according to his mother, but could people truly be rebelling because of it? Likely it was a tipping point. His father was beyond his best years, and Durran was young, charismatic, chivalrous and valiant. Compared to him, the boy standing tall in a world of men, the strong but stern father with a corrupted face and burning eye seemed the villain. He would be in the stories.

"Do you hope Durran will win?" He asked her.

"As a wife, yes. As a woman and a mother, I just want this war to end. I don't want Durran's rift with his father to become so wide that it can't be bridged. I don't want Stannis to grow up not knowing the rest of his family." She looked back at him. "Is that still possible?"

"Perhaps," Arlan told her, gently placing his hand on her shoulder. "We can hope."

Laena smiled. "Durran doesn't hope," she said. "He says he cannot hope that his father changes, he has to force it."

"Oh I know Durran doesn't hope," he replied. _Only when you have done everything possible to influence the outcome, can you hope that it is in your favour. To hope before then is to do nothing more than give up._

Durran was listening then. _Who would have known those words would move him to war against his father, the man who taught them to him?_


	17. Father against Son 3

"The Golden Tooth is awash with soldiers, Your Grace," Ser Balon told them at the council meeting. "They come through from the west, meet up with more rebels from the Trident and then turn south."

"They're moving towards Durran," he commented. His mother had brought him in to the next meeting to take the place of Lord Davos. He had no experience in naval command, but it gave another voice to the table.

Ser Balon nodded. "I believe so, the prince is marshalling his forces together. He intends the next campaign to be the last."

"If he meets Jasper with a host reinforced from the Trident and the west, he will be victorious," his mother said.

 _We can't let that happen, Durran will undo all of father's work!_ "What about the siege of Harrenhal?" He asked. "Are the traitors removing soldiers from the besieging forces?"

Balon shook his head. "It would seem not, the latest sortie was beaten back by the besiegers, two dozen knights were taken hostage and half as many killed or wounded."

"So they're tightening the siege," he commented. "Have we told father of these developments?"

"We'll send a raven to the nearest holdfast, get them to send riders to your father," his mother said. "Don't worry. He'll be told."

"Does he have enough men?" The Grand Maester asked.

"If he moves quickly," Arlan replied. "He is outnumbered, but if he can catch Durran before these new forces arrive, he'll have a chance." If not it might be too hard, but he couldn't say that, he couldn't let it be possible that his father could be defeated by his brother.

His mother's face flashed with pain. "I'd hoped that this wouldn't come down to battle. I'd hoped..." Arlan knew it too well, he too hoped that his father could bring his brother to his senses.

At that moment the door burst open. "Your Grace," panted a watchman. "Sails on the horizon, ships are approaching the coast."

"What banner do they fly?" His mother asked, any weakness vanquished in a moment.

"The stag and star, Your Grace," he said.

He felt a smile come across his features. The Stag and Star, the banner of Andalos, the reinforcements were here at last. His mother was also smiling. "Excellent," she turned to him. "Arlan, go with Ser Balon and meet them as they disembark. We need to know the strengths and weaknesses of this force. Lord Mooton, go to the treasury, we'll need to reimburse the ships we commandeered. Arlan send them to Lord Mooton to get their payment."

He got to his feet. "Of course mother, it will be done."

()()()

People often liked to think that an army could disembark easily and swiftly, that in minutes they could be formed up into lines and columns and ready for battle. But in truth this was not the case. There were over two hundred ships sailing into the Rush, and not all could dock at the jetties, many had to sail down and set their men upon the tourney grounds.

The colours were far more uniform than any host gathered in Westeros. While some of the disembarking men bore the livery of a certain lord or knight they all bore the Stag and Star somewhere upon their person, be it their cloak, their breast or their boots. The only exceptions were the men of the order, who disembarked efficiently and smartly, bringing their horses and supplies off the boats in swift order and stationing guards around them, while clerks and stewards checked that everything was off the boats.

The other group that bore no livery was the force of mercenaries that disembarked the furthest up the Rush. They had a uniform livery of Myr, but flew the banner of their employer as well. They shouldered crossbows not made, as they were in Westeros, with wood, but instead of horn and sinew. They had large pavises with them to shield them as they reloaded and all had either a mace or a sword at their hip to use if engaged in close combat. Before they had finished disembarking their entire company, a practice range had been set up, with wooden stumps driven into the ground to use as targets for their weapons. They were a new company, he knew. With the conquest of Myr by Volantis, many of their citizens had been displaced and, as was common in Essos, had formed mercenary bands to make a living.

But it was not only soldiers brought from the east, horses, food and weapons of war were brought as well. Rack after rack of shield, spear and bow were taken from the ships, as were animals to be led to the slaughter and some already salted for travel, cask after cask of beer, a new drink brewed in the east that could last for up to a year, far longer than ale, barley and wheat were carried out by the bushel. This was an army ready for war.

He stood under the great royal banner of his father and waited. Going to them would take forever and he could never be sure he received everyone, instead he would wait for the commanders to come to him.

They came one by one. Lord Bryan Lettan, a lithe man who'd been among the first wave of Westerosi settlers in the east, and bore the scars of it, came over. His sigil, a sword piercing a flame, was emblazoned upon his chest, but he flew the Stag and Star just as high and proud as his own. "My prince," he said, bowing low. _He still acts a little like the knight he was not the lord he is. A lord by my father's hand and command._

"Lord Lettan," he replied, "it's good that you've come."

He rose. "Of course, my prince, my king called me, and so I answered."

"Not you alone Lord Lettan," came a jovial voice from behind.

A knight of the order was approaching, young and fit and unsteady on his feet. He didn't look like he'd faired too well on the journey, though he was trying to disguise it. "My prince," he bowed, "I am Ser Galladon of the Order. It is a welcome sight to see you after our journey."

"Are you the knight-captain?" He asked, respectfully. He looked to young and green for that.

Galladon shook his head. "No, my prince. Knight Captain Farwyn was to be our leader, but he was taken ill in Pentos. Rather than wait, we decided we should push ahead with all speed. He gave us his blessing and sends his regrets that he couldn't aid you and your father in person."

"I see." His father would likely have known who Knight Captain Farwyn was, he hadn't a clue. "Are you to speak for the knights in his place?"

He nodded. "I volunteered, my brothers accepted."

"Good," he said. "Then all we need is the Myrish representative." As he said this he saw a number of the sellswords approaching under the banner of a snake wrapped around a naked woman.

"You are the king?" The one at the front said, he was a wiry figure that Arlan wouldn't have pictured as a soldier; not that a soldier's body was needed to wield a crossbow.

Arlan shook his head. "I am not," he said, "I am his son. Prince Arlan."

"We had no princes in Myr," he muttered. "Well, prince, I"m afraid before we get down to business, I must ask you where we can find your paymaster for our first payment."

He glanced at Galladon and Bryan, who nodded. "Very well," he indicated one of the men at arms who'd accompanied him. "This man will take you to Lord Mooton. Our Master of Coin."

"Caradoc, go with the man," the sellsword leader said to one of the men at his back, who nodded and followed the man. "I am Craghas of the Crossbow, leader of this force of soldiers that your father hired."

"Then it is a pleasure to meet you, Craghas," he replied, bowing his head. "Unfortunately time is not on our side, we must move quickly if we are to aid father. As such I need you to come with me to the Red Keep."

()()()

Ser Balon quizzed them about their capacity for war. It was just the three leaders, Ser Balon, Ser Rolland, him and his mother, the rest of the council seeing to other matters. "What men and arms did you bring?" Balon asked.

"The lords of Andalos provide a force of four thousand men and arms," Lord Bryan answered at once. A thousand knights and footmen, and two archers for each of them." Andalos had to favour their archers, they had fewer knights to call upon and more indistinct borders to hold.

"That's a significant number of Andalos' knights," Arlan pointed out. "Is Andalos safe?"

"We came when our king called," Lord Bryan replied simply. "The rest can hold at home."

He was about to ask more, but Balon cut across him. "And you, Ser Galladon, what have the Order's forces in Andalos provided?"

"A thousand knights and a thousand men at arms," he answered. Less diversity, but their more disciplined footmen and brotherhoods of knights were vital to Andalos' stability in a world surrounded by enemies.

"And what force do you command?" Balon asked Craghas.

"Two thousand crossbowmen, and five hundred men at arms," the Sellsword commander replied.

He did some sums in his head quickly. "Eight and a half thousand men," he said. Not a small force at all. "We need to get them to father as quickly as possible."

"Indeed," Rolland said. "But, we need to get them all disembarked and organised before we an march." He looked to the three commanders. "You should return and see to it. If possible we should march in the next few days."

"We'll get back to our forces now, ser," Bryan said, with a bow of his head.

Once they'd departed they turned to each other. "Will it be enough?" His mother asked the two knights.

Balon paused before answering. "If they get there before his Grace meets his son in battle, they will certainly help, your Grace."

"How are they getting there," Arlan asked them and they looked at him quizzically. "Who will lead them? None of them are intimate with knowledge of Westeros, and we can't risk them getting lost or slowed down."

"A good point," his mother said, looking at the two knights. "Who should lead them?"

The knights looked at each other. "His Grace ordered us to remain here and guard his family," Rolland pointed out. "If not it would be my honour to lead the men in battle."

"What about you, Your Grace, you've led men before?" Balon asked.

His mother shook her head. "Twenty years past, I am not what I was. Even if I was, I could never lead men to battle against my son, I couldn't."

"What about you, my prince?" Rolland said.

"What? No," he replied. "Father ordered me to remain here." _He needs me in the case of the worst. I can't fail him._ "Surely there are others."

"None I would trust that the men would follow," Balon said. "You may be the best suited to lead them to your father, my prince."

"But-"

"Don't deny it, Arlan," his mother said softly. She looked at him with her sharp grey eyes. "Leave us," she said to the knights who bowed and left.

"Mother," he began. "Father-"

"Isn't here," she said. "You are, and they are. I know you wanted to go, to be at your father's side." _I did. But my duty is to obey him._ "That host _must_ reach your father before the battle to come," she said. She reached out and touched his cheek softly. "I remember birthing you, not a year after the war ended. But I knew you'd have to be a warrior then. Even in that instance, I knew that one day it would be up to you to take up the sword and ride to war. I wish it were not against your brother, but if it must be then it must be."

 _You're really letting me go?_ "Mother, I don't know if I'm ready."

"You have to be," she said, removing her hand from his cheek, her voice hardening. "I will never be ready to fight against my son in war. And I wonder if your father truly is ready himself. You have to be ready to war, Arlan. If not, then I will keep you confined here."

 _Perhaps that would be best. I want to go there, I want to fight, but... if the worst should happen..._

"Arlan, there are moments in a lifetime that define a man. Marriage, the birth of a son, the death of a loved one. Choosing whether or not to fight, that is a choice. Not just a choice about what you will do, but a choice of who you are. This is where you decide. Are you a Warrior prince, a knight who will serve and protect his father and lord, who will lead his armies and fight his enemies? Or are you still but a child, who will do only what he is told?"

He stood up taller. "I have always served," he argued. Durran had been able, but he had _always_ been there. His mother didn't doubt that, and neither did he. "And I will continue to do so, as I swore to father, I will defend him and his legacy!"

She smiled, leant up and kissed his cheek. "Then go, my beloved boy. Lead your father's army to him, and bring your brother to his senses. Bring him home."

He dropped to one knee before his mother. "I will bring Durran back, mother. We'll be together again."

She felt her warm lips press against his forehead, giving him her blessing to ride off to war.


	18. Father against Son 4

They had marched from dawn till dusk across the Crownlands to meet with his father's host. Over his head flew his father's banner, the black stag and golden field, while beside it flew his own banner, a golden field as before, but with twin black stags rampant. Two stags for the second son. Behind him the banners of the order, Andalos and the sellswords stood tall and proud, cloth whipping and snapping back and forth, stars shining brightly and antlers raised like spears and swords in the bright midday sun. The column was neat. Many of these men weren't trained soldiers, give them a column and they knew where to march. One of his father's lessons, one he'd been privy to during Durran's tutelage. His outriders were spread out in pairs, consistently reporting back to him to tell him that nothing had changed, and for two weeks they marched along the Roseroad, his scouts ranging for signs of battle. A force of seventy six knights joined them from the North, scattered from Lord Commander Horpe's raiding force. The rest, they told him, had ridden to join King Jasper, they'd been left behind to tend to wounded men, or because their horses were lost.

He had welcomed them into the host and they brought valuable information. More and more rebels had been coming south from the Riverlands, the host of Lord Bracken had returned and held a siege of Marlehal for a week before a truce was agreed and they pressed on. That would be thousands more men added to his brother's host. More news for father, if he didn't already know.

The outriders found him four days later, and the host encountered his father's camp after four more. It was a well ordered camp, positioned atop a ridge that protected their southern flank, with a palisade established to the north and west. Horse lines lay out for what seemed like a mile, with destriers being handled by squires and grooms as pages ran by to deliver missives from this knight to that lord, who's pavilions were hammered into the ground in a checkerboard, like the hides of a giant's great hunt. He saw line after line of spears, their leaf shaped tips glinting red as though already bloodied; some of them were being wielded by footmen being drilled by grizzled overseers and tough veterans. Men in steel caps and mail shirts marched in the livery of Wendwater, Rykker and Meadows, shadowed by those of the order, who stood out in their black and gold livery and the tighter marches and more precise drills they carried out. Knights were testing their horses and lance arms against quintains and each other, others circling the camp to keep settled into the feel of a horse between their legs. Hedge knights hoping to make a name for themselves in their mail and plate, with their dented cuirasses and weathered blades, shadowed knights of the order, perhaps hoping for induction, perhaps trying their luck against his father's sworn soldiers. Others were enjoying the beer and camp followers who strutted their wares, hoping for a copper here or a silver there. Fletchers by the dozen were preparing the arrows and bolts to be used by the archers and crossbowmen, who were practicing with them at the butts set up for them. Even though the army was clearly here to stay, father was not one to let it go to sloth, they were readying themselves for battle. "My Prince!"

A column of riders approached, the banner of the king flying over it and a knight in white armour leading it. "Ser Garlan," he called to them, raising his hand in greeting.

The knight pulled up, his horse snorting and shaking it's mane to and fro. "Your father has been expecting you, he's eager to see you."

"Is he?" He asked. Perhaps the rebuke would come in person. "The men I've brought-" he began.

"Will be settled," Ser Garlan assured him. "Your father gives instruction that you are to join him in his tent at your earliest convenience."

He nodded. "I'll inform my men to set up camp alongside this one, then I'll come to him."

()()()

He walked past the smell of shit, smoke and sows as he marched through the camp to his father, bringing Lord Lettan, Ser Galladon and Craghas with him to meet the king.

His father's pavilion was the largest in the middle of a sea of black and gold tents of the order, surrounded by his most faithful and loyal warriors, an army who had all taken a personal oath of fealty to him. More than once his father had travelled to Harrenhal to receive the new oaths of newly inducted knights and men at arms, and he fastened their cloaks about their bodies in person.

As they approached the heavy gold pavilion, he heard voices coming from inside, but he couldn't quite make them out. Outside was one more of the Kingsguard, Ser Robert Estermont, with two men at arms of the order, who crossed their heavy polearms across the entrance when they approached. But Robert waved back at them and they stepped aside at once. "It's good you're here Prince Arlan," Ser Robert greeted him with a smile. "Come, his grace will be glad to see you."

Inside was his father, but not, as Arlan had anticipate on hearing the voices, with his lords, but rather with his Kingsguard. "Your Grace if this is a trap-"

"If it is then Durran is a fool, and if there is one thing I can guarantee it's that my son is no fool."

"Father." They all turned to look at him, and his father gave a smile, his lips twisted by the shadows that covered his face.

"Arlan, you're here," he looked to his Kingsguard. "I would speak with my son now, we'll discuss this further when I am done." The Kingsguard obeyed and left the tent, leaving him alone with his father. "So," his father said, folding his arms over his chest and looking at him severely. "I tell you to remain at home, protect your mother and sister and the captives, and instead you come here with an army at your back." He shook his head. "It's just what your brother would have done. Your mother too, if we were not fighting our own family."

"Would you like me to return home, father?" He asked, not knowing what answer would come from his father's lips.

He shook his head. "No, you're here now. You've made your decision, and your mother must have given her consent. I'll permit it." Arlan couldn't help but smiled. "However, you will be with the rearguard. I cannot put you in the most direct danger when I know that Durran will be in the vanguard of his force. I can't."

He bowed his head. "I understand, father."

"Good," his father unfolded his arms. "Then you'll be coming with me tomorrow. With luck, there may not be a battle at all."

"What?"

"Durran has called me to negotiate the end of the war without further bloodshed. We'll meet tomorrow in a neutral location. My Kingsguard would have me send an emissary, they fear a trap. But Durran will not betray a negotiation, not that way. If he does then he is not fit to rule and be king."

"He could just be using this time to ready more soldiers, more are coming from the Riverlands."

"Yes," his father replied. "I got your message about it. It would be foolish to open negotiations and halt the war without knowing the outcome. But Durran will have to try and pull this force together, mine has been drilling and training for quite some time now. True we have your forces to add, but I am confident that my host is far more coherent than his."

"I hope it doesn't come to battle."

His father clapped him on the shoulder. "As do I, Arlan, but if it does, we must commit, you understand?"

He steeled himself and nodded. "Yes father."

()()()

The meeting point was Meadow's Field, a wide open plain where the blueburn twisted like a lay snake to the north and dotted with hedgerow, but otherwise it was flat as a shield, no road passed through here, although some wild horses did roam there, scattered by the arrival of the delegations. Each side was allowed to bring one thousand men at arms to the talks. His father had selected his noble lords and their sworn swords, his Kingsguard, apart from Ser Garlan, who remained behind to command the host in his king's absence, and knights of the Order.

Arlan watched Durran's column approach, and it was a far more vibrant force, the morning sun glinted off their armour making it seem like a force of knights clad in crystal. Over their head flew a panoply of banners, from the wildest beast, lions, bulls and eagles, to the simplest of the gods" creations, flowers, trees and rocks. As they neared the column split and fanned out like a peacock spreading it's feathery wings to impress and overpower a rival male, for they matched father's formation exactly. Most stayed back, for only three negotiators were permitted at the table, with a further two soldier to carry the banners. His father brought him and Lord Commander Beric to the table, with Ser Robert and Ser Lyonel Fell to hold the two banners, one bearing the crowned stag, and one of pure white, both hanging flaccid in the windless air, without the momentum of the horse to carry them into flight.

They waited patiently, but tense, their horses were not far back, if Durran were to charge now, they'd have just enough time to rush back to them before battle was joined. But father felt confident that wouldn't happen. "Of my thousand knights, more than seven hundred come from the Order," he explained. "They have a sense of brotherhood and unity that Durran won't have. If he chooses to betray us, we have enough men to defeat or delay them long enough to retreat."

Slowly Durran's negotiating party came to the table, dismounting the same distance away that they had. Unlike father's party of white and black, Durran"s party wore black, grey, silver, green and blue. He recognised the arms of Lords Blackwood and Tarly at each shoulder of his brother, they would be his fellow negotiators and the two knights behind him took his brother's personal banner and the white flag of truce.

There were no words as they approached and took their seats. His brother had never looked more the knight, more the soldier, his armour black and silver, his hair framing his face and falling to his neck, the silver streak shining brightly. He seemed... harder, a stronger gaze. _He isn't lusting on battle_ , he noted. _He's calm, he's sure of himself and what he's doing._ "Father," he said.

"Son," his father replied coldly.

Durran looked at him. "I didn't expect you here, brother."

"I stand with father, Durran," he told his brother coldly.

"Clearly, it's unfortunate, but won't stop me," he turned back to father.

"No more than you can stop me, Durran," his father added.

"You have to be stopped father, you're going too far."

"Am I?" His father sat back. "Cass told me what you think of my reign." He shook his head in obvious disappointment. "Do you think it justifies rebellion?"

Durran shook his head. "You justified the rebellion father, when you refused to listen. There was no other way. But it can end here." He produced a sheet of paper, backed on leather to keep it safe and whole, as large as a charter, seals affixed into it with wax, so many that many were attached to the charter by strips of leather. He slid it across to his father who looked perplexed. Arlan leant over to read the title.

 _The Charter of Horn Hill by which we, the nobles, lords, knights and septons, put to Jasper the First of His Name, King of Westeros and Andalos, Lord of the Lands and Peoples and Protector of the Realms, the terms of the better ordering of our kingdoms._

"Take your time, father," Durran said sitting back.

His father slowly read the document, there were more than twenty different demands on it, he sat back, letting his father read it. He did, in silence he read the document, each and every demand.

"Quite the comprehensive list," he said, placing the document down. "You have quite a few demands," he said, not to Durran, but to Lords Blackwood and Tarly. "Why not just ask me to strip naked, prostrate myself before you and give you the executioner's blade. Is there a single aspect of my reign that you do not take issue with?"

"Father," Durran said, as though chastising an infant. "We don't seek your death."

His father scoffed. "Of course you don't."

"Your Grace, if it will make you amenable, we will have this document reissued, a further clause added that we all swear holy, sacred and binding oaths upon, that you will not be harmed upon accepting this document."

"And what about those harmed already. I know that Lord Tarly here imprisoned one of my justiciars. That is worth death. But here you would turn them into your thugs, to obey you on my land."

"Obey them in our lands, your grace but-"

"It is _my_ land!" His father slammed his fist on the table so hard that the document bounced. "All of it. This earth upon which we sit it mine, that river over there is mine, the trees and bushes, the roads and hills, the rivers and streams, all of them are in my land, my realm. You hold _my_ land by my permission and grace. Perhaps it has been too long since I had to remind the lords what happens when they choose such disobedience. Do I need to remind you all?"

"Father," Arlan spoke up. "Your wroth is getting to you. This is a negotiation, not a battlefield."

His father glanced at him, then closed his eyes and took a breath, sitting back and cradling the shadow of his face in his hand. "Of course, you are right, Arlan." He took up the document and looked it over. "Perhaps you have some right to what you say," he told them sitting opposite. "Perhaps I have gone too far. Or perhaps, I haven't."

"Father," Durran hissed. "Do you not see?" he continued as if they were alone. "The fact that we are here at all means that this is the case. You have ruled for 23 years, there has not been a single rebellion against your rule in twenty."

"Do you have such a short memory, Durran?" Arlan asked, incredulous. "You yourself were taken by-"

"Quiet!" His father hissed and he caught himself, his face burning. Most of the world didn't know about that.

"I have not forgotten my past, brother," Durran reminded him coldly, Lords Tarly and Blackwood looking confusedly at their prince. "And it seems that father will not forget his desires. Will you accept this charter, father, or recommend any changes."

"No," his father replied simply. "I will not listen to those with swords at my throat. Now or ever."

Durran shook his head, looking saddened by that. "I knew you were stubborn father, but in this case you are wrong. You never listened ever at all, swords or not. They have been trying for years to get you to listen, but time and again you refuse them. I thought you were a better king than that."

His father was on his feet in a flash, his chair flying backwards and his fists slamming onto the table. Lords Tarly and Blackwood got to their feet like corks from bottles and Durran more slowly followed. When his father spoke, Arlan was taken aback, he had never heard such rage. "You dare _lecture_ me about ruling. About being king?! You are an able soldier and leader, you have charisma and skill, you were good with sums and you know your history, and you seem to keep good council. But you have never had to make decisions that affect the fate of an entire realm. Not once! You think you know how to rule as well, or better than I?"

"No as I am, I am not as strong, as able a ruler as you," Durran said. "But I am not you father. And I don't have your experience. But I cannot let you continue down your path. If that means we have to force you to submit, then so be it. We have the strength, our host is stronger than the force you have gathered, even with brother's reinforcements from the east."

"You know?" Arlan asked, aghast. How had brother learned that.

Durran nodded. "My scouts saw you three days ago."

His father's gaze couldn't darken, and if his left eye burned any brighter it would set Durran alight. "I'm impressed, Durran, every day you show yourself to be a better leader than I judged, but I cannot let this rebellion continue. Do we agree, this meeting will get nowhere?"

"And so we do, father."

"Very well," his father stood tall, looking with anger, strength and perhaps a little respect. "Then let us settle this. You called me here once, now I do the same."

Durran looked confused. "We're already here, father."

He nodded. "And we shall be back. Let us see the strength of your convictions, and your abilities as a leader first hand. I challenge you to battle. Here, in two days. Your host and mine. Do you accept? Or do you, with your host that is stronger than mine, with your purpose that is purer, not have the courage or will to battle me? Will the gods rule against you so early?"

Durran's face darkened. "Our will shall meet yours father. I'm sorry that I'll have to bring you to the negotiation table again, this time defeated and conquered in war."

"Truly," his father said. "I defeated my Uncle outside King's Landing when I was five years your junior, I held of the demons of Winter and drove an entire faith from my lands. I slew the Knight of the Flowers and took the Last Dragon prisoner in war. I invaded Pentos from the sea and took it by storm in a single day, and defeated the combined armies of Braavos and Lorath on the coast of Andalos. What battles have you won, what wars have you won that I should fear to meet you on the field?"

"You speak of battles of the past, father. I will win the battle of the future."

"Perhaps. We shall see."

Durran made to turn, but stopped himself. "Enjoy your last two days as the despot you are, father. You won't deny us any longer than that." He returned to his horse and they did the same.

"Father, do you mean it?" Were they truly to meet Durran in battle.

He nodded. "I do. We will march here and send out word of the challenge I issued to Durran," he said. "Neither of us can retreat now. If I retreat, it will seem I have already surrendered to my son. If he does not come, he acknowledges that against his father, he cannot be victorious." His father turned to him, fixing him with a stern gaze. "Are you ready for this? There is no turning back now."

He took a breath. "I'm with you, father, now and forever."

His father clapped him on the shoulder. "I've always been able to rely on you." They mounted their horses to return to the camp.

 _And so it's come to this._ Arlan thought. _After a year of campaigns, of the initiative swinging from one side to the other, father and brother are moving into a head on battle where one side must win the day._ He remembered the sight of the camp, but also the reports on just how many men had sided with Durran. _Can we hold and take the field against Durran's vast grand coalition of knights, lords and soldiers, or will Durran's prediction come true, and will father finally meet someone who can conquer him in war?_


	19. Father against Son 5

The beats of twenty thousand men on the march rang through the morning like a giant beating his drum, drilling into Arlan's ears with it's monotonous, repetitive drone. The army marched neatly along the road like a snake, outriders and knights flanking them on the rougher ground and the rearguard protecting the wagons at the back of the column. The night before the battle, they rested, Arlan struggling to sleep under the dark canvas of his tent, hanging like a shadowy prison, holding him hostage. He'd never fought a battle before. Durran had. Father had more than once. He felt so... unready compared to them. But his father was trusting him with the rearguard. He couldn't disappoint him.

He rode at his Father's side the next day as they approached the battlefield, he would turn to the rearguard when battle began. Everyone spoke of how it was a dark day that father and son went to war, and the gods seemed to agree, sending dark clouds to blot the sun from their eyes. _If this is my last day, it will be a sunless day._

They advanced onto the battlefield. It had been so welcoming when they had been there for peace talks, but was so dark now, the bright blue river was now a dark snake, coiling in the distance and the hedgerows were thick lines of bristles and thorns, spikes jutting out to bring harm to any who came near.

Durran's army came from the north west as they advanced from the south east. "Lord Commander, go," his father ordered at first sight of the enemy. With a nod, the Lord Commander of the Order and his banner advanced ahead of the host. The vanguard of the army, entirely mounted, a force of three thousand, a thousand knights of the order and two thousand mercenary hedge knights, a hand of steel that would hold back Durran's advance while the main line prepared itself. "Arlan," he turned to his father, the voice sounding distant and faint. "Go, prepare the rearguard." He nodded and turned his horse, the twenty five knights his father had assigned to him following him closely.

Once at the rear he turned to watch the stag that was his Father's army lowering it's antlers for battle.

His father had the centre. The banners unfurling over them, the royal banner overshadowing them all, the great stags prancing to and fro across their golden fields. Around him were his Kingsguard, his five white knights, and five hundred knights of the order. They held the line, while in front of them the men at arms of the order stood in two great blocks of seven hundred men each, halberds and polearms clutched in their hands, a third block of six hundred standing directly in front of father, the centre's rear. These were the best footmen his father had, drilled and practiced with their weapons, their black mail and cloaks making them seem distorted in the grey light of this dark day. Connecting the two squares were three great ranks of levied footmen with swords and spears and maces, flying the banners of Wendwater, Morrigen and Buckler.

Where the foot dominated the centre it was completely absent from the right. Around the banners of Caron, Ryyker and The Stag of the Order formed a fist of nearly four thousand horse. A thousand knights of the order gathered beneath their banner, their cloaks resting over the hindquarters of their steeds, and their lances held tall and still, a thousand arms reaching for the sky. The rest were the knights of the lords bannermen, Caron, Mooton, Meadows and Fossoway. Lord Caron had that flank under his command, and they stood ready to battle.

On the left were the footmen of the lords who rode on the right, their forces gathering into one large block, shields locked together beneath the banners of Seaworth, Velaryon, Rosby and Stokeworth, their lords and their sworn swords behind the line. Behind them were wings of archers stringing their longbows and covering their exposed flank with a line of spears and pikes. His father had ordered many of the supply wagons gathered and chained together for some of the archers to stand on, so their arrows may fly straight and true against armoured knights.

He looked at his own force. He had the rest of the army at his back, ready to intervene at any moment. The mercenaries from Myr were here to his left, their pavises ready to be deployed, their quivers at their belts and their crossbows in their hands. At his back were five hundred order knights, ready to react swiftly and two and a half thousand footmen of the order, polearms ready to carve up the enemy.

He took breaths to steady himself. This was it. Battle. Opposite, the stag that was his brother's army was also lowering it's antlers, though from here it seemed more to be the genial innkeep, opening his arms wide to welcome his guests into his hall.

He couldn't make out the disposition from here, only some of the banners. His brother's banner was at the head of the army, along with an armoured fist of riders, ten times or more the size of his tourney mesnie, the young lords who had fought alongside Durran for three years. The size and power of that fist could shatter anything in it's path, and behind it the army filled out. On his brother's right were the banners of the rebels from the Reach. He saw the Huntsman of Tarly most prominent of all but it was not alone; he saw the wyvern of Vyrwell, the Rings of Roxton, the lightning bolts of Leygood, the bull's skull of Bulwer and more, lines of footmen and heavily armoured knights filing out. On his brother's left it was the same story, but where huntsmen and wyverns flew from poles, here it was ravens and trees for Lord Blackwood, he saw several Tully banners, although Lord Tully was directing the siege of Harrenhal, it seemed he'd sent some of his men to support Durran, the Maiden of Piper and both branches of House Vance had brought soldiers as well. Meanwhile Durran's centre was filled out with a medley of soldiers from across his coalition, but unlike his father, Durran's strength was not so heavily concentrated in the centre.

Both armies were preparing, but Durran was not interested in waiting. He saw his brother's vanguard advance long before he heard the bugles. The banners streamed in the wind, what light there was catching off the cloth and the lance points, making them glitter like the gods had draped them in diamonds and pearls. His Father's vanguard responded and rode to meet the enemy. The beats of thousands of feet came to his ears as his brother's army followed the vanguard at a slower pace. His brother was taking advantage of the fact that Father's army was waiting to finish organising on the move, that they might engage in battle sooner. His father wouldn't move before he was ready, and so his brother held the initiative as the vanguards met.

Time seemed to slow as the vanguards charged at each other, and as they closed, Arlan's view of his brother's vanguard was lost as his Father's got in the way. He saw the horses kicking up mud and dust. He knew they'd met in battle, the two great metal fists slamming together, when he heard the shattering of a thousand lances on a thousand shield, the blow of a hundred trumpets and the war cries of ten thousand men. But it became a swirling mass of dust and men and he couldn"t tell what was happening. Just the screams of battle, the sounds of trumpets and the steady footfalls of his brother's army as they pressed on their advance, coming towards them implacably, unceasingly.

When they were ready, father ordered a slow advance, the wagons on the left hitched back up to their horses and taken forwards with the army. He gave his own signal and the rear guard moved on as well, keeping step with the host in front, alert, but ready.

Then the swirling melee broke, like a great gust of wind through a collection of sticks. Men of the order and hedge knights were scattered, hedge knights flying left and right and backwards, while the remaining knights of the order were following their banner to the right, still running, but running with more of a purpose than survival. But it mattered not. The first engagement was a victory for his brother. The enemy army picked up speed, committed to the assault.

His brother's vanguard emerged from the dust cloud like a host of demons clad in steel, those remaining lances lowered and swords raised high. His brother seemed to be the devil himself, the greatest and oldest of the demons of legend, his antler like horns, and his armoured form standing in the saddle, taller than any other man on the field. His Father's trumpets sounded a halt and they dug in, bracing to meet the demons.

He wanted to be there, holding strong, but he had to hold back. His brother had more men and if he committed the reserve incorrectly, they would be lost. He had to watch to know when and where that was. His brother had also held a reserve back, he could see them gathered, but not the banners above them. But they were there. Some had suspected that Durran would commit everything, trying to work for a quick victory, his father disagreed, and it seemed that he was right. A rush to the left, The horse on Durran's right were suddenly tearing across the battlefield, racing to join Durran's charge on the centre. They'd seen the futility of charging the shield wall ahead of them, so raced to join the charge on the centre. Father's longbowmen sent their shafts at them, but it wouldn't stop them, and they couldn't wheel their flank because the reacher foot were still advancing. On the right the enemy didn't change direction, but he couldn't see many horse on that flank at all. What was his brother planning to do against the armoured fist of his Father's army. Indeed, that flank's knightly force was growing as the knights of the order from the shattered vanguard were regrouping with them. But from Durran's left, the army of rivermen, came a swarm of arrows, the enemy archers deploying to delay his Father's flank. His brother was tying down his Father's flanks and going right for the throat.

But like a great dust cloud, his brother's alliance rushed at them, unstoppable, implacable, frothing at the mouth, horns lowered and fangs bared.

There was a moment of silence before the enemy attack hit, just a moment, where Arlan could hear the beat of his heart and his breath in the air. Then his brother's vanguard slammed into Father's centre, the hammer blow falling just as the knights from his right joined them.

The first line of footmen shattered like a sundered plank of wood, spears and swords and arms and heads flying in all directions and the enemy knights rode over them and slammed into the second line which stood, held, quivered and fell, the sheer body of knights smashing forward against the untrained levies who scattered in terror. His brother's wedge of armoured knights slammed into the third line, but by this point many men in the third line were breaking and running. They had seen their brothers and fathers and friends trampled by the faceless armoured knights bearing down on them like demons and had no desire to face that same fate. When his brother's knights came through that front line, then the second one after it, arrows and slings and spears shattering on his steel plate, many of those knights had arrows sticking from their armour, but unfazed, they charged on. In the end, there were not enough men left in the third line to halt his brother's charge, and all that stood between his father and his brother's host of chivalry and steel was a block of order footmen. But his Father's banner never waivered, stood proud and strong against the dark grey clouds and sky.

With a crash like a thunderbolt the son's right smashed into the Father's left, shield to shield, spear to spear, sword to sword, two great beasts locked together, alpha stags rutting with their antlers, kicking up the dirt as both fought, neither looking to give in. The Stag and Star against the Huntsman. The archers behind were still loading their arrows and shooting them into the centre of the battle, where the father and son opposed one another.

The centre was failing, the men of the order desperately fighting to keep formation and hold back the steel demons. The left was locked, and would be for some time, who had the strongest will would win that battle, unless he intervened. But if he risked the centre for the left... What about the right.

The right was regaining some sense of order, the horsemen forming up to the sound of trumpets and the banners of the lords and the order. Then, as one, with a roar to the heavens, the knights put their spurs to their horses and charged forwards. _What are they doing?_ He couldn't see, he didn't know. Were they attacking Durran's centre? Or were they charging at the archers attacking them? It was to him to throw in the rearguard, but he couldn't make out what was happening.

He turned to his knights. There was one thing he could do. "Gather up the routers, get them back here with us and reform them!" His knights rode to catch the fleeing men from the third line.

Still the battle raged on, the sounds rushing over them like one endless wave, violence, screams of death and steel on steel a cacophony broken by the occasional blast from a trumpet. War. Madness. Death.

"My Prince," it was one of his knights, he noted oddly, the voice coming to him like he was submerged in a warm bath, away from all of this. "What are your orders?"

 _I have to do something!_ The centre was breaking. His Father's sword glowed brightly as it flashed, the king and his knights throwing themselves into the battle. The right was nowhere to be seen, and the left still locking horns with the enemy. "Send Craghas around the left flank," he said. He didn't have enough men to turn the tide in the centre completely, but if they won the left... "They are to shoot the enemy in the side, break that side, then press on to the centre." His crossbowmen could've helped hold that knightly charge... Too late now. _Do not lament missed chances, son, seize those that come!_ His brother's knights had left their right flank exposed. "Now. Do it!"

Craghas' men shouldered their crossbows and set off at a brisk march, faster than levied foot would be able to move. He had to hope they got there in time.

"And us?" The knight asked.

He pointed at the melee in the centre. "The king is in danger, we must defend him." The trumpets sounded and they all readied themselves. Mounted knights and reformed levied footmen. Drilled Order infantrymen and armoured squires. "Charge!" He ordered.

He put his spurs to his horse and took his sword in hand. The poleaxe was his weapon of choice, but unwieldy atop a horse. A sword would serve for now.

The horse between his legs pounded at the ground, his thighs were tight to the saddle and his helm on. He slid down the visor, reducing everything to a narrow slit of vision. All he could see were swirling horses and the men on them, hacking and slashing at those around them. He gathered his nerves in his throat, his fears, his doubts, his disbelief and his confusion, everything that wouldn't serve him, and let it all out in a desperate cry of fury.

Like his legendary grandfather's warhammer, they slammed into the battle. He slashed at the first grey helm he came across, unable to tell friend from foe here, the sword ringing off the steel, but already that knight was gone as his horse carried him onwards. He cut to either side, striking at arms and legs and heads, his sword ringing off them, blunting itself on the steel covering them. His arm rising and falling with every moment, with every chance, at every foe.

He raised his visor, like every knight would in the thick of battle, taking in deep breaths of air and freeing his eyes. The scale was so much greater than could be seen through the visor.

At some point it had started raining, he realised, not much, but the droplets of water were running down the armour like tears, he licked a few of the sweet drops from his lips. He pressed onwards and soon came into combat with a knight wielding a longsword dripping with blood. He had a deer on a pole as his sigil and came charging at him. He raised his sword and knocked the incoming swing away from his head. Pulling on the reins, he spun his horse to follow the knight who wheeled around, brining his steel down in a savage cut that the knight blocked with his shield, the skin over the wood splitting and flapping about as they spun and struck at each other. The hooves of the horses were slippery on the mud that was getting slicker every moment the rain fell, and it was falling faster. The knight caught his wrist with his blade and he recoiled, grunting in pain and pulling too hard on his horse's reins. His horse teetered and skidded on the ground and they fell. He slammed into the softening ground. He pulled himself from his saddle, dragging himself away, the horse flailing around with it's hooves, trying to right itself. He needed a weapon, his sword had gone flying in the fall. His poleaxe was still on the side of his saddle. He dragged himself over to his horse, armoured fingers sinking into the softened earth and pulling it apart, barely dragging him, his armour sticking in the mud. But inch by inch, he approached his fallen steed as the battle raged around him, he ducked his head low as one knight leapt over him on his destrier like he were a fence, landed, and then fell, just as he did. A glance showed him that horses were falling thick and fast now, some had arrows in their sides, heads and legs, but most were just slipping and sliding on the earth. He saw one knight of the order swing from his horse and pass it to a squire, choosing to fight afoot rather than risk being crushed by his own animal. _He won't be the last_ , he thought as he reached his horse.

He dug his hands under his animal and heaved with all his might, crying out at the weight. But he was just pulling his knees further into the muddy earth. Steel rained on steel all around him, and he didn't hear his own roar as he pulled with everything he had.

Suddenly there was a thud beside him and he turned, a knight of the order had come to help him. "Here my prince," he barely heard him say. Together they were able to get just the leverage they needed to pull his horse upwards. He seized the reins, desperate to hold the beast still. Horses hate mud, with good reason, and it took the most skilled of horsemen to control one on the slippery surface. He was not the most skilled. "My prince, to mount now is suicide! Let my squire take your horse from the field, fight the battle afoot."

He looked around at the battle that was moving from horseback to muddy earth, and nodded. He drew his poleaxe from the saddle and gave the horse over to the knight's squire. "Where is my father?!" With the chaos he couldn't see anything, banners had to be raised afoot now.

The knight gestured to the right, that could be to the right flank or the left, or the front or rear, he couldn't tell any more. He raced in that direction, trusting the knight with his horse. Enemy footmen tried to stop him, but the blade of his poleaxe saw to them. He split the head of the first one, planting a foot in his chest to pull free. With an arcing sweep he took the head off the second, ducking under the third's swing and plunging the spike of his poleaxe into his chest. He stared at him, eyes wide and fearful, the battle lust suddenly gone from his eyes. He coughed and a spurt of blood dribbled down his chin, hot and wet. He pulled back, slamming his shoulder into the footman to shove him off the end of the poleaxe.

He pressed on, he had to find father. Before his brother did. He looked for the Kingsguard, the white cloaks wouldn't be far from the king, and they'd be easier to see. Another footman tried to take him, but alone, he was no match. Arlan brought his poleaxe up and down, carving through his shoulder and chest, splitting him clean in two, ribs snapping from the spine as his blade carved through them.

Then he saw it, a flash of white. That was all he needed. He raced forwards, shoving people aside, friend, foe, they didn't matter, only father.

The white knight was face down in the dirt, but he was alive, frantically scrabbling at the dirt, trying to pull himself from the mud. He dropped to his knees and took the knight's helmet in his hand, pulling with all his might and spinning him over. His armoured gauntlets pawed at his visor like a dog at a door. He wrenched the visor up and gasped. He couldn't tell which knight it was, his face was coated in a thick sheen of glutinous mud, sliding over his features making him seem featureless. Arlan tried to clear the mud from his mouth and eyes as the knight shook in his arms, but it as futile. He cleared the mud away from his lips, but it was already in his mouth and nose. He could do nothing. Nothing. Only watch as one of the most noble and puissant order of knights in Westeros drowned before his eyes. He leant over and vomited on the ground, the orange-grey expulsion moulding with the mud in a disgusting swirl of battle gore. It wasn't supposed to be this way...

But he couldn't tarry, couldn't try and work out which one of the white knights it was. He had to find father, or the others. He let the white armoured form slide to the ground, hitting the mud with a wet slap. Then he saw it. A golden banner, the size of a royal sheet. It was ruffled and crumpled, but it had to be father. He swallowed the rest of his vomit, his father needed him. With a grimace, he used the white armour to push himself to his feet, forcing the body deeper into the mud and the shit, and rushed towards the royal banner.

The two stags were locked in battle. His Father's glowing blade flashed through the air, the one bright spot on the entire battlefield. His brother's silver tipped iron antlers reflected that light, glinting as he met his father blow for blow. "No!" He roared, but not even he heard him.

His father may be a veteran, but his brother was in his physical prime, and it was telling. For every one of his Father's blows that came close to landing, two of Durran's rained on his armour. He pushed his way through the last combatants, the whip of cloaks of white and grey, black and green all that he saw on his path as he struggled to get to them.

Durran slammed his shield into Father's, staggering the king, an rained his sword off his helm again.

"NO!" He charged forwards, raising his poleaxe. Durran heard him, or felt him, and turned to see him. Arlan swung at his head, but his brother ducked and slammed into him just as he had father. He grunted as he was stopped in his tracks. CLANG CLANG CLANG came the blows on his helm. He staggered, but then a giant swung at his chest sending him staggering backwards, struggling to maintain his feet on the slippery ground. Then another force slammed into his side, and he fell to the ground.

"Argh!" His father had shoved him aside and taken a blow to his arm as the cost. He scrambled to his feet as father and son battled again. Durran was possessed of battle, there was no hesitation in his strokes as he demolished his Father's defences. _I will never be ready to fight against my son in war. And I wonder if your father truly is ready himself._ Mother. He charged again, this time, cutting downwards, forcing Durran back from father with the greater reach of his weapon. He stepped back until he was in line with his father. They'd fight Durran together.

His father stepped up to his side. They charged as the battle raged all around them. But nothing else mattered than this moment, only this fight. They attacked, him from the right, his father from the left.

Durran wouldn't be undone. With a slash he knocked High Justice aside and slammed the rim of his shield against his Father's helm then smashed his own blade aside with his shield and cut across his helm with his sword. His ears rung as his head whipped around at the fore of the blow. Than a slam on the back of the head made him fall to his knees, crying out in pain and tasting blood. The world span around and he closed his eyes, counting through the pain.

When he opened them, the world was righted, but still singing at him. He turned his head. Durran was standing over his father who's fallen to one knee, but was not surrendering. Then, in one deft move, everything changed, his father trapped Durran's sword and, with a blow from the rim of his shield, disarmed him, flinging the sword aside. But that fling exposed his chest and Durran drove a steel boot into it, sending his father flying. Arlan reached out as his brother snatched something up from the ground and rushed at his father. He fell on top of his father, trapping his sword arm and driving whatever he'd picked up towards his Father's face, who caught it. He couldn't hear them, not over the sounds of battle, but he saw his brother's lips moving, demanding, and his father replying, refusing. He staggered to his feet, they couldn't lose now. He retrieved his poleaxe and rushed.

This time he struck true, the hammer of his weapon slamming into Durran's back, driving him forward, the sharp object plunged into the earth. It was the tip of the antler his father had cut off.

He raised his poleaxe again, but as he swung it down, Durran caught it and twisted. He stumbled and his foot caught on his Father's leg, slamming him to the ground again. He looked around as Durran retrieved a blade. He stood over his father, holding the blade to his face, but then another figure charged into the battle. Another white knight, smashing aside the blade and driving the Durran away from his king. Then came another, and a third. Durran was suddenly fending off attacks from three directions, his sword a flashing whirlwind, ringing off swords and armour.

He rose again, but as he stood the wave washed over him. Men charged past, men in black mail and black plate, with swords and polearms, rushing over and around him, himself being the stubborn rock in the river that never shifted. _Father!_ He pushed through the wave, nearly swept over by the charging force, but he followed the glow of his Father's blade and yanked him to his feet. His father was red as recently spilled blood where he wasn't black as night. They stood together, waiting, panting, recovering as the fighters boiled over them and raced past them. Finally they passed and they took the battle with them, the sounds and shrieks of battle and death charging away from them.

He panted, his head still ringing and his blood still pumping, and looked around.

It was a bloody muddy mess. Bodies lying in the dirt, prisoners being dragged away, banners being taken and ripped down and worn as celebration cloak by the victorious army. Their army. He realised it now as they looked around. The force that had swept past them was still fighting, the enemy rearguard was holding strong, but the field seemed to be theirs. But there was still one matter right here.

Durran had been on the verge of victory, but taken by surprise by three of the Kingsguard, having just fought against his own father and brother, he was beaten, lying in the dirt, sword out of reach, looking up at his opponents in clear defeat. His helm was removed by one of the Kingsguard, his black and silver hair matted and plastered to his head and face, defiant and disbelieving in defeat.

Arlan looked at his father, who nodded. They approached Durran and removed their own helms, the relief of it like a warm bath after a training session. His ears were still ringing from his brother's blows.

Durran only noticed them when the Kingsguard drew back. "Father!" He grunted in pain, looking up at them both, but with eyes for only one. Arlan halted, this was between them. "Is it... over?"

"At long last," their father replied, sorrow in his voice.

Durran looked around. "I've... failed..."

His father approached, High Justice gleaming in his hand. _Don't do it, father_ , he thought desperately. Their brother had rebelled but... He wouldn't.

Durran eyed the blade fearfully. But squeezed his eyes shut when their father raised it up. Arlan wanted to cry out. But his voice wouldn't come. His father slid High Justice into his scabbard and Arlan sighed in relief.

Durran cracked open one eye when no death blow came. His father dropped to one knee with a muddy squelch, sinking into the bubbling mud as the rain pattered around them. He held out a hand. "Come with me... son."


	20. Father against Son 6

Father against Son 6

The celebration went on long into the night. The men cheering and drinking around the fires; camp followers plying their trade in the gaps between tents for a few coppers. Watch towers were manned, but none expected a return for Durran's shattered host. The dismounted knights had been unable to outrun the enemy when the battle turned against them. A three hundred and four had met their deaths on the field, and hundreds others wounded, yet more were captured, along with the lords they were to serve. Of the enemy levies, thousands littered the field, along with the men of his father's host. He had lost fewer knights, less than two hundred, and all captives had been freed after the battle, but Durran's charge had torn through his foot like a razor through rice paper. Plenty would not be returning, slain by sword or spear or trampled by the destriers of Durran's host or left to drown in the slush made by the rain.

The trophies of war were heaped in great piles outside the camp, one pile for useful things, one for those unserviceable, and one for those that might be salvaged with work. Heaps of swords and spears, shields and boots, belts, knives and quivers, shirts of mail, boiled leather and cloaks upon cloak, sigil upon sigil. The piles had been larger earlier, but Jasper had let the men take their trophies. Peasants were not permitted to bear swords, but many would be returning with a sharper knife than before, or a proper spear where once they'd had a sling or a pitch fork, an iron helmet in place of a cloth cap and a pair of stout leather boots to replace their own cloth shoes, fallen apart in the war. All would go with a story of their bravery and talent, about how they had slain a thousand foes, all the while praying that they never got called to battle again.

He walked past them in silence, the men at arms on duty barely acknowledging his passing, watching out for looters who would take more than their share.

His torch made the shadows of the banners twist into grinning masks on the grass before being consumed by the light. He ignored them and focussed on the ring of flaming braziers just outside the camp. Surrounded by men of the order, and encompassing a sea of cages jutting up from the grasses like ugly armoured fists. The prisoners were kept away from the camp and the light, surrounded by a strong guard. Lord Wendwater had suggested ringing them with steel in the centre of the camp. But so many knightly captives had been taken that his father feared putting them in the heart of his army, surrounded by weapons.

The lords had been invited to dine with their victors, but there was one who had refused, and so Arlan was bringing his brother food in the cage.

"My Prince," said Ser Robert Monkton of the Order, the knight assigned to lead the guard of the prisoners. His left arm was in a sling, but the maester had assured him that he wouldn't lose it. "Are you here for your brother?"

He nodded. "We all need to eat, Ser Robert."

The knight nodded. "He's in the centre, over there," he pointed with his good arm.

"Thank you." He walked smartly past the cages of knights, sitting around in circles, eating the food provided for them, but Arlan ignored them all. Some gave him a look, but none said anything.

He found the cage he was looking for. Another knight guarded it, his black helm hardly visible in the darkness. "Open the door," he commanded. He nodded, and opened the cage. He slid the torch into a brazier as he passed. "Brother."

Durran was hunched against the cage wall, knees pulled up and eyes staring at the ground between them. He looked up slowly. "Arlan," he said in a dead voice, cold and lifeless as the earth he was sat on. "What do you want?"

"How are you?" He asked, ignoring the venom in his brother's voice.

Durran snorted like a boar. "Of course, brother, let's sit here and discuss how I am, or I'll sit anyway, it's not like I can go anywhere else." He rattled the chains at him like a child's toy. "Well, I am doing very well," gone was the venom, instead there was sarcasm. "I don't know how my friends are doing or even if all of them are alive; I'm cold, wet, tired, aching all over and my own father is likely planning to take my head off. How about you, Arlan, how are you?"

"Father isn't going to kill you, don't be absurd." How could his brother think that? Perhaps it was the chains, or the hunger. "Here, eat something."

"I'm not hungry, Arlan."

"Is that why you refused father's invitation to dine with him?"

"I will not be served like a dog at the table!" He snarled, his eyes flashing hard and cold. "I will not sit there and listen to him celebrate his victory in front of me!"

Arlan placed the tray of food on the ground, too far for Durran to just knock it over in anger. "Of course he's celebrating, he just won the battle to keep his throne."

"How many bloody times do I have to say it? I wasn't after father's fucking throne!" He slumped back. "Where's Robert?" He asked, calmer. "Where's our brother?"

"Alive and well," he assured Durran. "Lord Commander Horpe captured him and had him escorted from the field under escort."

A flash of relief lit his brother's face momentarily. "I'm glad."

Robert had struggled against his captors, but in the end, he was but a boy, barely a year older than Cat. "He believed in you to the end of that battle, likely still does. They all did."

The rebels had been vehement in their support of his brother. More than half of the lords had refused to raise their cups to any of the toasts at dinner, and several had upended them. "I offered them a... better future than father. They fought for that. Nearly won it as well."

Arlan raised his eyebrows. "We have most of them in chains now. The rebellion is over. You didn't seem to win it to me."

Durran looked at him. "You saw how close I was to winning. I nearly had father. Had you not interfered I would have taken him captive and the battle would have been mine. Even with you, I nearly won."

He remembered the sight of Durran's knights tearing through his father's front line like a hot knife through softened butter. "It was a bold plan." He said. "I wouldn't have thought you'd be so willing to fight that way against someone as experienced as father."

Durran looked at him. "I know how father fights his battles. He's taught me enough. He reacts. He holds to take the first blow and then reacts to it. It's how he taught me, and confirmed by how he set up his forces. The foot in the centre, four lines deep, with the order on either flank, himself behind. They were buffers, meant to hold against an assault and bog it down while he won in other areas of the battle and then struck against the stymied assault. So I took the options away from him. While my knights charged the centre I had my other forces hold down his flanks. My archers drew his knights away from the line on the left, your right, and we matched wall for wall on the right, your left. There wasn't any other support in the centre when my knights carved through his line. You saw how quickly it shattered apart. We had nearly reached him. If he turned to retreat, or if he'd tried to stand against my charge alone, he'd have lost."

"But he did hold," Arlan reminded his brother, lost in the melancholy of what might have been. "And you lost."

"He held, true, in some small part thanks to your intervention. Had those men not come in, we'd likely have reached father regardless. But make no mistake, brother, you didn't win that battle, nor did father, not his experience, his skill or his right to rule as he so wishes. The rain won your battle for you."

"The rain?"

Durran nodded. "Had we not been forced to dismount we'd have reached father and taken him. Instead, we had to dismount, and a knight is suddenly far less terrifying to the levies when he is afoot, and the men of the order are trained fighters, though they aren't as good as their knights. On the equal footing, the your numbers prevailed." He let out a breathy laugh. "The future of our dynasty, decided by the rain. That would be another battle that was decided by father by the weather. He does have luck in that regard."

"Father-"

"Would no doubt berate me for trying to reach him through four lines of footmen. But he can't deny they shattered like glass before a warhammer." He shook his head. "I was so close," he whispered.

He crouched down. "Durran... brother, this isn't the end for you, for any of us. He held out a piece of salt beef. "Eat, regain your strength." His brother's arm lashed out, knocking the beef from his grip and making it drop into the mud with a squelch.

"Leave me be, brother."

Arlan bowed his head. His father had said this might be the case. Durran might refuse to see reason for sorrow at his defeat. "I'll leave the food here," he said, standing up again. He dropped a skin of water as well. "Here's some water as well. Father will likely summon you tomorrow. Fair well brother."

()()()

Father did indeed summon Durran to him, embraced him openly as a returned son and then sat with him in his tent. Alone. Father and son, rebel and lord. What they discussed Arlan never discovered, but it took most of the day, the sky orange by the time Durran was escorted back to the stockades.

Then Arlan got to meet with father alone. He was hunched over a basin, dipping a cloth into some cold water and dabbing at the left side of his face with it. "Ah, Arlan," he said, dropping the cloth in the bowl where it turned around and around like a lazy eel. "You're here."

"Father," he bowed. "How was your meeting with Durran?"

There was a pause. "Awkwardly, to say the least," he replied. "But the specifics are between us, for now." He let the water trickle down the side of his face and sat down. "We shall be beginning our march to the capital tomorrow," he informed him. "I've sent out riders and ravens to tell of the victory, I suspect the rebels will be singing their surrender before long, and those on the fence will be declaring that they were with me all along." He snorted. "At the same time cursing that I was victorious here."

"How will you treat the rebels?" He asked.

"One of the many things discussed with your brother," he said. That was it. "Your brother... it was difficult to see him sat there that way. I knew it wouldn't be easy to defeat him, but I never thought that it would come so close to my own defeat. If the rain and Kingsguard hadn't come..."

"Where were the Kingsguard?" Arlan asked. Only Ser Garlan had been near the battle between father and son, and he was dead for it, drowned in mud. Such a poor bloody waste of such a fine and loyal knight.

"I sent them to rally the men of the order and whatever levies they could. I would need all of them. If they hadn't come, I would be my son's captive, like as not, so would you. But still," he stretched out his shoulder. "Durran has grown as a warrior. I've never fought anyone like that. Not the Knight of the Flowers, not Barristan the Bold, no one. I owe you greatly as well, without you, I wouldn't have lasted long enough. He would've taken me." He shook his head. "At least I know the Kingdom will be in the hand of an able warrior when I'm gone." He smiled wistfully before looking back at him. "If you wonder about your reward, don't worry, I have one in mind, and I shall be granting it when we return to King's Landing."

He hadn't considered that. "I... thank you, father." A reward, what could it be?"

"It is earned," he assured him. "More than earned. Now go and prepare your things. We are marching tomorrow."

()()()

The march took them three weeks. They travelled slowly, moving carefully along the Roseroad, scouting out in every direction to ensure that there was no ambush ready to free the lords of the rebellion so that the fires may continue to burn. But nothing happened and they made it to the capital unmolested.

The people lined the streets of the capital in celebration as the royal host entered the city. He rode in pride of place beside his father, behind them the knight captains and lords bannermen, their banners fluttering in the breeze, snapping at each other like dogs at play. They and their knights had their arms raised in celebration, catching the petals swirling around them from the smallfolk.

Behind them rode the knights, both household and of the order, a sea of black and grey and silver and green. Then came the footmen of the order, marching in lockstep, polearms shouldered as they marched to the beat of the drum through the main street of the capital, towards the Red Keep. Last came the noble and knightly prisoners of the Battle of Meadows Field, in their cages, pulled on wagons by their horses, and while the city had cheered for the army they jeered at the captives.

It was quite the display, food was given out in recognition of the victory. Whatever the lords in the country felt, King's Landing was firmly behind the King, the man who had rebuilt the city after the war, who had saved it in the war before. His annexation of Pentos had helped trade across the narrow sea, making the merchants enjoy his rule. He was their champion, and their champion returned victorious.

At the entrance to the Red Keep was the Queen and the court, waiting patiently and calmly, though he could see his mother was barely restraining herself from rushing to them. He dismounted with his father, their horses taken away as the lords did the same and the knights filed to the sides, so the people might observe. His father made his way slowly up the steps to his mother, pulling her in to a soft kiss for all to see, his hands on her waist as hers rested on his arms.

They turned to the crowd as he followed his father, kneeling before his mother, who took him and raised him to his feet, kissing his cheeks, before he also turned. The victors celebrated with the people before they turned to the Red Keep. The business of court had to be attended to.

()()()

His father was sat on the throne, far above them all, looking down on them all. His mother sat on one of the smaller thrones, to the right of his father, and he had been awarded the throne on his left. It was a hard, uncomfortable thing, though his father had once sat on a throne made of swords. No wonder he changed it, how could any bear that? But it was not the stone that was most uncomfortable. Normally it had been Durran that had sat this throne, at his father's left hand, while Lord Stannis sat to his right. He was in his brother's seat, and it was wrong, all of it. The room was crowded with lords bannermen, knights and the richer citizens of the city, all jostling for place to observe the formalities of ending the war. They'd heard as soon as they'd entered the keep that more than a dozen nobles had sent ravens indicating they were on their way to King#s Landing to bend the knee. The host outside Harrenhal had tipped their banners to Robb Stark who came on them from the north and was escorting the captives to the capital.

But this day it would truly end. The trumpets sounded out the arrival of the first to be honoured for the battle. Lord Commander Richard Horpe, Lord Bryan Lettan and Lord Bryce Caron. They entered resplendent in their finest rainments, sable cloaks trimmed with gold and silver, and thick tunics, gold chains and rings showing themselves off. Richard's cloak was that of the Lord Commander, unique in the Seven Kingdoms. "For the valour shown in the battle," his father said. "It is decreed that the following men shall be honoured. Lord Bryan Lettan, to you I award you the funds to build a second holdfast in Andalos for your second son, as well as a sum of ten thousand Gold Dragons to do with as you will. Lord Commander Richard, it shall be my honour to take your young nephews into my household as pages, to become squires once they have aged enough. When they come into their knighthoods, their first suits of armour shall be provided, as shall their weapons and two horses each. Lord Bryce; you have served faithfully for many years. I grant you a sum equivalent to that awarded to Lord Bryan, and I also grant you the guardianship of the young lady Belmont, to be raised by you. She shall be your ward to raise as you see fit, and it shall be to you to arrange a marriage for her and her education." Lady Belmont's father had been died of an injury sustained in battle, leaving only a daughter behind. Custody of her was a valuable prize, and Lord Caron's son was unmarried. How Lord Belmont should be turning in his grave, the king's prerogative to assign custody of underage heirs and heiresses was one of the complaints the lords under Durran had risen to him.

They all gave thanks to the King and rose to the applause of the crowd. Next came in men who were not lordly. They didn't have silks to wear, but their clothes had been smartened by his father's own tailors. "Presenting the Goodmen Willam, Jered, Edmyn and Lorcan!" Called the crier. "Goodman Willam, he who captured a knight in the battle, Goodman Jered who held the shield wall together under heavy assault, Goodman Edmyn who saved his master from under his horse and Goodman Lorcan, who commanded two dozen archers in the battle, men who brought low the banner of Lord Gorlys Hunt, despite his being in the thick of battle."

"Goodmen. You have served with distinction in the battle, and hence I shall reward all of you. Goodman Willam, please come forward." His father gestured and the first man shuffled nervously forward. "I present you with a sum of silver, worth the value of the knight who yielded to you." A chest was brought forward. "As further reward for your efforts, you shall be permitted to join the gold cloaks of the city of King's Landing, with food and board for you and your family, also, I know that you have two sons. Your eldest shall begin training in the Justiciar's Tower, one day to rise to be one of that rank, enforcing the King's laws across the realm. The younger shall be taken as a page into my household and, should he serve well, risen to become a squire, and then a knight."

He thanked the king. Even though everyone knew what their rewards were before coming in, most probably still couldn't believe it. They had been nothings before this. Now their sons would rise to become knights and justiciars.

"Goodman Jered, please, come forward," just like the one before him, the man came forwards and bowed. He was presented with a great oak shield, banded in iron, and a silver hafted spear. "Should you wish further employment, you shall be allowed to join the Order of the Stag, at the rank of serjeant, a full spearman of the foot, there to serve with payment until age or injury takes you from service." Jered bowed, accepted the offer and joined Willam to one side.

Goodman Edmyn was presented with a heavy silver chain and a his son taken as a page by his master, soon to be a squire.

Finally Goodman Lorcan stepped up. He was gifted with a great yew longbow from the marches and three dozen arrows. An offer also come to serve as the second in command of the King's archers, who had been taken by a stray bolt in the battle, an offer likewise accepted.

Then came the moment he had been waiting for most. His name was called out and he got to his feet, walked down until he was in front of the throne and knelt before his father and King. "Arlan, my son..." He could hear a hint of affection in his father's tone. Only a hint, but that it was there was more than enough. "You chose to remain at my side. Despite knowing that your brother would one day be king, despite the fact that it looked as though he was to win. You were given the option of waiting here, sitting out this war. You didn't. You chose to fight at my side, as proof of your loyalty. For this you shall be duly rewarded. As a prince, you do not want for wealth or prestige, and you have no sons as yet. But your faith and trustworthiness have made you worthy of a position of power, and so it is that you shall receive." His father's steward stepped forward, a large scroll sealed in golden wax on the finest vellum available resting on a purple cushion in a dark mahogany case, being presented to him. "I would name you the Prince of Andalos, granting you the seat of the Newfort in Pentos, and the authority to rule that land in my name while I am not present. You shall rule as if me, collect the taxes of the lords there, raise and command armies for it's defence, exact justice according to it's laws and maintain the peace of the land."

There was a collective shudder from the crowd, murmuring from around them. Upon his coming of age, Durran had been granted the Isle of Tarth, in a stroke, Arlan's had secured a lordship more than seven times the size.

He licked his lips, suddenly dry. "It would be my honour father," he said. "I will serve you loyally and to the best of my abilities." The crowd began to applaud, he kept his head bowed to hide his smile. Finally he got his facial muscles under control and looked up to see his father right before him. He gripped his shoulders and took Arlan to his feet, kissing him on the cheeks and inviting him to sit back down again. He did so, the throne suddenly far more comfortable.

When the applause died down, the door opened again. No trumpets or announcement this time, only silence. The last call had been what he'd been waiting for, this one, the one he'd been dreading. His brother walked down the centre of the hall, none daring to meet his fierce eyes. Everyone else had been dressed in their best finery, not Durran, he entered in a hair shirt with a rope tied around his neck, like it was ready to be strung up. There was silence as he made his way to the foot of the throne. He looked up at his father and for the longest moment, father and son stared at each other, neither moving or blinking.

"My son," Jasper said, looking down with a face of stone. "Twice now on this throne I have had to sit in judgement of close family. The first time was my own mother, and now my eldest son. Perhaps the gods are making a mockery of me." The murmurs started up again. Everyone knew the result of the last trial. His father had his mother executed, having had her head shaven and eyes ripped out before. "You lead a rebellion against your own lord and father, besieged castles of those loyal to me, rooted out their garrisons, imprisoned my representatives and met me in battle. And here I am, to sit in judgement again. The price of treason is high, punishable by death, and the gods themselves know that I have not flinched from such a duty before. But never before has one I loved so much been the one I must judge. What do you have to say, my son?"

Durran didn't answer for a long, frozen moment. The tension in the room like a bowstring pulled tight. Then Durran sunk to one knee. "Father. All I did I did for the realm... for our family. You taught me that one mast have conviction, I cannot apologise that my convictions led me to do what I did. But as a future king, I have a responsibility to those who chose to fight at my side and at my back. Those who chose to put their lives on the line for what I offered. I beg you father, I beg you most humbly, not for my own life, but for theirs, that they not be punished for making an impossible choice. It is in their name that I most humbly apologise for my actions, and seek your forgiveness."

His father sat back, looking down at his prostrating son with an iron mask. Perhaps his mother, perhaps the Lord Commander, could determine what he was thinking, but no others. "You ask for mercy. Normally I would not be inclined to give it. However..." He touched his lips with his fingertips. "You act in this moment as a King should. You seek to protect your vassals, as you and your fellow rebels claimed I was not properly doing. That is as a King should act. And I must act in that manner, for the crown is, for now, mine, and I have vassals that need protection. You lead these rebels, will you speak for them here?"

Durran bowed his head. "I will, father."

"Then I am willing to pardon those who took up arms to fight under your banner. Full pardons, without reduction in territory, execution or the taking of hostages. Any crimes from before conflict between us will be punished in full accordance with the laws of my land. This protection will be extended only upon an oath that you yourself shall take." He looked around the room. "I am not removing you from the line of succession, I do not have the will or the power for that, that is a sacred and binding law. However, there are men and lords who fought for me, in full knowledge that one day you would be their overlord. If I am to offer assurances to your supporters, you must swear a full oath, here, in front of the realm, that you will in turn seek no vengeance against those who supported me when you come into the throne." He paused to let that settle in. Arlan hadn't known that detail. Was that part of the agreement made between the two of them in private? It had to be. "Will you swear this? In turn, you and your followers will be forgiven."

"I will, father," Durran said, head bowed low.

His father nodded. "Then I swear upon my throne. Any rebel who ceases his treasons and swears me fealty again will be brought back into the King's Peace without punishment."

"And I in turn, upon the throne that I will one day inherit, swear that I will take no vengeance or punishment against those who supported my lord father in the rebellion."

That was it. The matter was settled, the war was over with those words. His father descended the throne, drew his son to his feet and kissed his cheeks, embracing him tightly. He took the rope and drew it over Durran's head. "You are a rebel no longer. These are the clothes of a rebel, bring my son his clothes."

Durran's clothes were brought to him and the father helped dress the son as the court watched. When he was dressed properly, Durran knelt and kissed his father's ring. The court cheered the public reunion of father and son and the end of the war. None had likely expected his father to be so lenient in his victory, but Arlan saw the truth. Not only would his father's supporters have nothing to fear because of this oath, but those who had supported Durran had him to thank for this leniency. Father and son were securing the future of Durran's reign, and a peaceful transition of power.

Durran took a seat to the side of the throne. One by one the lords captured in battle were brought forward to renounce their treasons. Only Lord Tarly was sentenced to death. Not for the rebellion, but for bringing harm to a Justiciar before the war started. Durran was uncomfortable, but he knew this was the price, and did not object again.

There was a celebratory feast that night. Durran and father both served each other, a symbol of solidarity, and the feast progressed well, although there was tension between the newly forgiven rebels and the loyalists who sat side by side.

Afterwards, a family gathering was called in his parents solar.

Waiting for them was Laena, Stannis, Robert and Cat, who'd not been allowed to the sentencing or the feast, the focus had to be on his father and brother. "Durran!" Cat slammed into his brother's middle, wrapping her arms around him tightly. "You're back," her voice seemed to crack.

"There there little sister," he said, kneeling and kissing her. "I'm back now. I'm sorry about... everything."

"I don't care!" She insisted, hugging his head to her chest. "You're back. Now we can-"

"Cat," he chastised his sister, taking her arm gently. "Let's let our brother be greeted by his wife and son, shall we?"

She nodded and came with him, hugging his stomach. "I'm glad you're back as well."

He smiled down at her. "I said I'd bring them both back didn't I?"

She nodded, then looked at Durran and Laena, looking away again quickly at the sight of them kissing. Durran picked up Stannis and held him on his hip. "I'm home, Stannis." He said, tickling him gently. The boy tried not to laugh, but struggled. "I'll be going away again shortly, but then I'm back."

"Where are you going?" Laena asked.

"I'm taking him with me," Jasper said. "I have to show him something, him and Arlan. I meant to do it some time ago but... things always got in the way. I always put it off. No longer."

"What about Andalos, father?" He asked. They'd heard the news when they returned. His father had disrupted trade when he'd called the fleet to bring his army from Andalos, hiring many merchantmen, and buying their cargoes destined for Braavos or Lorath or Myr or the other Free Cities who were up in arms. Both the Volantene Hegemony and the Braavosi alliance had made moves against Andalos while it was weakened to recoup the losses in trade. Father had to return and settle matters there. But there was somewhere he wanted to take them first. The site of his greatest failing was all he had said. "It will take time for the supplies to be gathered for the journey across the sea, and when we return, you and I shall go." Durran would be remaining here, not participating in this campaign. Durran had wanted to go, but father reminded him that Arlan needed to get the respect of the Lords of Andalos without him.

"What will I be doing, father?" Durran asked.

"You will be remaining here," his father said sternly. Whatever he had said on the throne, he was going to be watching Durran for a while. "Your mother will be regent in my absence, and will accept the surrender of your rebel lords. Get to know your son a little, spend time away from the tourney field. When I return from Andalos... we shall discuss your position further."

"I... yes father."

"Now go," his father said. "We could all use some sleep, and we can begin trying to put these dark days... this dark year, behind us."

They bowed and left.

"Congratulations brother," Durran told him with thin lips outside the room. "Truly, you deserve it."

"Thank you," he replied. "Where do you think father is taking us?" He didn't want to dwell on these events. It would only breed resentment. Now the family needed to unite again.

Durran pursed his lips. "I'm not sure. Perhaps the Wall, where he got his scars?"

"Perhaps." It was clear that neither of them were sure. "I'm sure we'll find out in due course." He pulled his brother into a tight hug, feeling his arms wrap around him. "It's good to have you back brother."

"It's good to be back... brother. I'm... sorry, for any pain I may have caused you."

"What about us?!" Laena came in with mock anger in her tone. "You had us worried stiff, didn't he Stannis?" Their son nodded.

Durran chuckled. "I mean to make it up to you, both of you," he glanced at Arlan. "All of you. If you're willing to meet me half way."

He laughed himself. "You always did more than half of the work when we were children, brother," he reminded him, thinking back to all the times that Durran had taken charge of them.

"Where's that brother of mine!" They turned to see a very angry sister bearing down on them. One of the few people who'd ever been able to cow Durran, though those days were long gone. Cass smacked him across the face audibly, before quickly pulling him back into a tight hug. "Don't ever do that again!"

"I hope I won't have to," he replied, hugging his sister tightly. He caught her wrist as she moved to smack him again. "We're long past that point, wouldn't you say, sister?"

She pulled her wrist from his grip. "Arse."

"I missed you as well, sister," he replied. "But- No, that argument has passed, I won't bring it up again." He looked at Cass' stern face. "We can talk more tomorrow sister, if you can steal my time from Stannis, Laena and Cat. But for now, I need to rest." He pulled away and wrapped his arm around Laena, holding out his hand for Stannis to take, leading them down the corridor.

Cass wrapped her arms around him from behind, far more gently than she had with Durran. "Thank you," she whispered, "for bringing him back, for mending the family."

He patted her hand. "Always."

 _Now we just have to keep it that way._


	21. Father against Son 7

"We've arrived," their father announced, sliding off the back of his borrowed horse and landing hard in the soft sand at their feet.

Arlan looked around at the desert around them, the arid wilderness of bleached stone and light sand, the nearby hill and the barren landscape. How could they have arrived, they weren't anywhere at all.

There was only a dozen of them here in this party. Himself, Durran, father, Lord Commander Beric, Ser Rolland, Ser Balon and six scouts of House Dayne. A more significant force had come with them, at least three dozen knights of the order and their attendant squires had been on the ship with them, but his father had left most of them behind at Starfall, where Lord Edric had feasted them on their arrival. They then set out with only Dayne guides to their destination. He and Durran seemed to be the only ones who had no idea where they were going, and a glance at his brother showed that Durran was as confused as he.

He swung over the saddle of his sand steed, leant to them by Lord Dayne for the journey into the desert of inner Dorne, and felt his leather boot sink into the sand a little. One of the Dayne men took his horse and retreated, together with the Kingsguard forming a loose shield ten yards out, leaving father and sons together with the wind whipping around them. Their father pulled the silk scarf down from his face and lowered his hood, letting his hair be caught by and carried by the wind like a tattered standard. Arlan had never been shocked by his Father's face, it was the only face he'd known his father to have, but his eyes... They were so filled with sorrow and regret as he looked around them.

"Where are we, father?" He asked. His father looked at him and held his gaze for a few seconds.

"Come."

Their father led them to scale the hill. It was a steep climb, and the hill was baked dry, with very little purchase for his fingers as he tried to climb. His left boot slipped and he slid roughly down the side before the back of his tunic caught. "Careful brother," Durran's voice grunted in his ear and hoisted him back onto the hill. His brother was using his dagger to seek purchase in the hill. Of course he would see an easier way. He drew his own dagger and drove it into the dirt. Apart from a slight spitting of baked mud, it stuck, he had to keep it angled down to prevent it slipping, but he was able to make it to the top, where they found their father waiting. The hill was great, with a sunken top, like a giant hammer had been driven into it from above. Father was stood on the edge, and held out his hand to them. Durran let him take the hand first and after his father had hoisted him up, they both pulled Durran up. His brother sheathed his dagger then dusted the dirt from his hands. "Where are we, father?"

Their father looked around, silent for the longest time. He knew what to say, but he clearly didn't want to, and when he did speak, it was in a hoarse whisper. "The Ruination of the Hellholt."

Durran's breath hitched, but he was just confused. "The what?"

"The Ruination," his brother replied. "I've heard of it, but..."

"This is it," their father said, stepping into the depression, arms opened wide, as though leading them through a gallery of the finest sculptures and paintings. "See the depression in the hill? The castle of the Hellholt stood here, the seat of House Uller."

He'd heard stories of House Uller, how they had slain Rhaenys, the sister wife of Aegon the Conqueror, and her dragon Meraxes. His own father had taken inspiration from that when he'd ordered the building of hundreds of bolt throwers to combat the Dragon invasion of Daenerys Targaryen. And he'd heard that his father had stripped them of their seat for their defiance in the wars against him, and their refusal to submit to his reforms of Dorne.

"What happened here?" He asked.

"House Uller refused to submit," his father said. "The Kingdoms were fractured, shattered by war, and I had a chance to bring them back together as they never had been before, build them new and clean. The Dornish had been too independent. I had to bring them to heel, they were crippled by war, but I had neither the strength nor resources to occupy the country, and they are... were a defiant people by nature. You know of how they stood against Aegon's Conquest. Their fighters hid in the hills, leaving only their families behind. I couldn't afford the cost in blood and time and gold that I would have to pay to bring them in by force, nor could I miss this chance to forge them all together. As punishment for his defiance, I ordered House Uller's seat put to the sword, and then erased to the earth. As you can see, that order was carried out... Come, before I continue, there is more to see."

He led them across the hill and down the other side. Arlan looked out. Dorne wasn't a vibrant land, but here it was lacking, he couldn't see a single village for all the view, not that there was any reason to build here. The river wasn't far off though, perhaps they were all there.

Their father led them to a bush, a coarse bush, barren and lifeless, tough old roots keeping it here. Their shield was still shadowing them. "So, you ordered the Hellholt raised, then what?" Castles were raised in war, and as punishment. It was unfortunate, but true. Why was his father so ashamed to go here? Why was it a failing?"

"It wasn't the Dornish lords that posed a problem, they had been broken, first in war, then by the extermination of the Ullers. But the people... As I said they were always defiant, first against the Conqueror, then against the Young Dragon. I could't afford the same. So I sent in my knights to the lands of House Uller, and razed them to nothing. Every village was burned, every man woman and child killed, the dogs, the cats, the cattle, slaughtered, fields sown with salt, wells polluted with corpses, the rest left to rot in the desert heat. The men who would have fought, the women and children who would have been left behind... none survived."

He looked around. Was that why this land was so... dead? Because his father had erased it. "All of them?" He asked. He couldn't imagine that. How many had died.

His father nodded. "All of them. It took half a year, but my army was patient, brutal, ruthless and, as I ordered, absolutely thorough. When I came here to see their work myself, the last survivors had been gathered. Many more had fled to neighbouring lands, spreading word of what would come from defiance. The Dornish could fight occupation, but not eradication. The country was concluded, and Lord Dayne could bring the lords to heel and the land to me." He knelt down at the bush and reached under it, drawing out a bleached white skull, grinning at his father as he held it up, looking into it's black pits of eyes. "This man tried to kill me. He charged at me, no weapon, no plan, no thought for his own survival. He didn't care. By my order his brother had died. So had his sisters, their children; his sons and their sons, his daughters and their daughters; one was impaled, the infants perished to starvation, their families driven to eat the corpses to survive. He was already dead by the time I had arrived, his head being struck from his shoulders was a mercy. I let the other loose to spread the tale as far as possible."

"Father." His brother's voice was cracked and dead. Arlan glanced over at Durran, his brother was pale, eyes wide and filled with horror. "How many?"

Their father couldn't meet their eyes. "Too many," the skull slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a crack, rolling several feet before settling, looking at them vacantly. "And that was me. I killed them all. I was the hand upon the sword that felled this land. I made the decision, and it is me that holds all the blame." He looked back at the skull staring up at them. "I was their king... It was my duty to defend them, to protect them and instead, I brought ruination to them and their families."

His father had done this? "How have I not heard of this?" He asked.

"Few talk about it," his father replied. "The only remaining witnesses were my army and the scattered peasants who fled elsewhere. As you can see," he said, sweeping his hand over the view in front of them. "I razed the villages as well. One day, perhaps, this land will be resettled, and the realm will forget what I did... perhaps..."

Durran's fists and jaw were both clenched tightly. "Father... why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Because I didn't want to return," he replied simply, looking at them with his usual stone face. "And this wasn't a story you could hear from me without coming here. You had to see it, and I had to be the one to show you."

"You never taught a lesson like this," Durran whispered, looking around.

"Of course I didn't," their father snapped at them. "Did you think I was raising you to be a king like me? That I wanted to see a mirror of myself sitting on the throne when I died? Of course not. I was teaching you to be _better_ than me. I cow the nobles with my castles and my soldiers; I teach you to be strong and stand against and above them so that you never have to do this. This is _not_ how a King should act. This was a failure by me, my greatest. These people were not Red Heretics looking to destroy our gods, they were not marauders looting and burning my lands, putting my smallfolk to the sword; they were guilty of living here, of being here. Not a crime, yet I sentenced them to death and called it necessary. Maybe it was necessary, perhaps I would have lost it all if I hadn't been prepared to show how ruthless I can be. Or perhaps I wouldn't. The histories will judge me as they see fit, as they always see fit. You may also judge, that is your right. But you _must_ learn. If you do not learn from this, then I have truly failed here." Their father was speaking to them both, but he was looking at Durran, and the words were meant for him. "I do not know how much longer I have on this world, I am already older than my father was when he left it. One day, I will be gone, the crown will be on your head and the Kingdom will be yours. These are the sorts of choices you will have to make, and when you do, you must make them without regret. Act, Durran, you remember that, don't you."

His brother nodded. "Act boldly, act valiantly, act subtly, but above anything else, remember to act."

"King's who do not act are seen as weak," he said. "You are not weak, neither of you." He turned and looked out over the ruination. "I acted that day and this was the result. It was wrong. If I had done nothing, the realm could have shattered. But that doesn't mean that this was the right choice to make. We all make mistakes, and there is a reason why I only did this once. I could have reduced the lands of the rebels who took you hostage, or those who supported you in the war and killed the Justiciars. When I founded the Justiciars I did leave that as a possible threat, instead, I only executed the one responsible. Do you know why?"

They both shook their heads.

He gave them a few seconds to think about it, he so often did that, let them try to think of an answer themselves. "Because it would have been wrong?" Durran answered tentatively.

"It was wrong twenty years ago," their father pointed out. "Why not again? Why did I not make the choice again?"

Nothing. Arlan couldn't think.

"I learned," their father said. "We all make mistakes. And I stand by what I said, that a King must act. But you must also learn. If you do not learn from your mistakes, as I did, you will be brought low. That is my lesson here. Do not shy away from your failures. Embrace them, learn from them, and then you will not repeat them."

"Is this about the rebellion, father?" Durran asked.

His Father's face flashed with anger. "You think I brought you here to chastise you about that again? No. You must learn from your mistakes, but you must also learn from mine, and your mothers, and my Father's. That is my final lesson, my son. Learn from my mistakes as you learn from your own, and you will be a greater king than I. In the end that is all I wanted from you. My teaching may have been harsh, I may have been a poor father, and I may have pushed you too hard. If that was my mistake, then learn from it, and do not repeat it. Act and learn, both of you. Act and learn and you will only grow stronger as time progresses and the crown comes to you."

They spent three days in the Ruination. They walked the dust and ash, saw the outlines of villages in the dirt, the broken timbers of houses and mills, and the cairns marking the mass graves of the extermination.

When they returned home they did so in silence. He had never known... had never thought his father would be capable of such an act. His father had massacred them, you could feel the deadness in the place as you walked where children had once played and lovers had once laughed. His father was a strong king, no one doubted that, yet looking at him on their return, he seemed half broken, unresponsive to anything but thing necessary to live. It had been horrible to walk there himself, but his father had seen it when it had just died. Arlan could walk the battlefields of the great war, through the glories of Stag's Wood and the horrors of Harrenhal, but he had not seen them when the corpses were fresh and the blood running hot and free.

He barely noticed that the fleet had been gathered to take them east, that the army was waiting on the shore to restore order to Andalos, to take him to his new home. Their mother hugged their father tightly when they disembarked, whispering soft words in his ear and running her fingers through his hair. When their father moved on she did the same to them, holding them in her warmth and comfort.

They prepared for three days before making their way to the ships. Durran had been silent these last days, secluded with his wife and son, contemplating, perhaps, or something else. But he had come down to greet them. He hugged his brother tightly. "Be well, brother," he said in his ear.

Arlan nodded. "I will," he replied. His brother and father hugged in silence before they turned to the boats that would take them to the ships out in the Rush. Just after they cast off, they heard Durran call to them.

"Father!" They all looked at him, he was standing at the edge of the jetty. "I'll learn the lessons, father. All of them, I swear it!"

His voice carried over the water, hollow in the wind. His father looked at Durran silently for the longest of moments, then nodded. "That's all I ask, Durran. That's all I ever ask."

* * *

 _Extract from "A Vengeful and Just King" – Chapter 10 Kin Strife_

It would take Jasper and Arlan a year of campaigning to pacify Andalos and come to terms with the Braavosi alliance over the attacks. For that year, his wife, Queen Arya, ruled Westeros, accepting surrender from rebels and accepting them back into the King"s Peace. We have few records to tell us exactly what Prince Durran was doing at the time, but from the records we have we can tell he was 'kept at King"s Landing.

When he returned, leaving Arlan to rule over Andalos in his stead, Jasper took the final step in pacifying the rebellious factions. He named his son, the hope and future of the realm, and the hero of the rebels, as the Hand of the King, replacing his Uncle Stannis. In this move, he was highly successful, and the father and son worked together to keep the peace successfully. Prince Durran accepted some of his Father's policies, but was able to curtail some of his others. Durran was also given significant power and responsibility, beyond a mere advisor. Over the next year he would settle the inheritance dispute for the Golden Tooth, removing the Royal garrison there and granting the castle to the new Lord Mowbray; bring the concerns of the rebels to his Father's attention and oversee the initiation of sixty three former members of the Night's Watch into the Order of the Stag.

But it was a two way appreciation, while Durran curtailed the excesses of his Father's authority; he also accepted and secured others. One of the Rebels" key demands had been limitations of the Justiciar's power, instead, Durran's name would appear first on the latest grants to the Justiciar's Tower, expanding the order by another fifty members.

Together, father and son were able to bring about an end to the war and conflict of the pas. For the last years of his reign, King Jasper would face no more rebellions from within. But that was not to say there was entirely peace. There would be one more conflict in the east. A Dothraki Khalasar had set it's sights on Andalos, and they were not interested in tribute. They would reduce the Kingdom to nothing and drive the Westerosi back into the sea. And this time, Jasper would be unable to go himself to fend off the invasion. His sons would step to the fore and Durran and Arlan, the princes on opposing sides at the Battle of Meadow's Field, would stand side by side against the horde of barbarians who sought to destroy their Father's eastern realm.


	22. The Prince of War 1

**The Prince of War - 23 AVJ**

 **Crown Prince Durran Baratheon**

* * *

The sea air was fresh in his nostrils and salty on his face as his fleet approached the city of Pentos. The wind was with them, blowing out the sails from flat to nine months pregnant and the gulls cried out in greeting. One hundred and thirty vessels had set out from the west, carrying five thousand men to assist his brother in war. _And father is trusting me to lead them._

The request had come by swift vessel a month ago. The day it arrived, father ordered a host gathered. Men were gathered, ships brought to the capital, and soon, five thousand men were ready to embark for the eastern land. Five thousand men, three thousand with heavy yew longbows, one and a half thousand men at arms, and five hundred knights, and him at their head.

He had been as shocked as any when his father had told him that he was to lead the host in person. He had been Hand of the King for two years, and had travelled with his father, ruled with him for all that time; but never had there been a suggestion of his father putting him at the head of a host after his rebellion. But he was here now, and he would lead it as his father had ordered.

Pentos was much changed from when he'd first come. When he'd first come it was a city resisting a conqueror: No common men of Pentos were there, instead scale mailed guardsmen and rigid disciplined Unsullied had sought to check their advance. The guardsmen had been the first to break, rushing into the city to find somewhere to hide from the advancing knights and men at arms. The Unsullied had tried to hold them, but his father had his crossbowmen and archers scale the rooftops and rain death on them from above, wounded and desperate, they were unable to hold against the determined knights and had been cut down. The port had been lined with treasure beyond much imagining, every Magister's manse had been stripped from top to bottom, tapestry and statue, coin and cloth had been taken and brought before them. That had been their punishment for refusing to deliver Illyrio Mopatis to him with all his wealth in recompense for supporting the Targaryen fugitives, leading to war and death for his people. So he had taken it all from them and beggared the Magisters, the lucky ones fled, the unlucky ones fell into the hands of those they had bound with indentured service, and absorbed the city into his own lands.

That had been the beginning of the foundation of Andalos. The conquest of Pentos brought much confusion and unrest to Essos as others tried to usurp the position. His father hadn't rested long. He returned not a year after the conquest of Pentos and struck like the thunder, seizing every town that had been in homage to Pentos, garrisoning them with his men and driving out the warlords and sellsword who tried to exploit it. To better control the land, he leant out money to younger sons of Westeros, or those who'd fought well. Castles were soon growing like weeds, and like weeds, they were impossible to remove. The sellswords who fought in Essos were used to open battle against other sellswords, not to camping outside a castle, suffering dysentery and other diseases while being raided by the garrison; and they were not fond of storming them, knowingly suffering heavy losses. His father had grown the and strengthened the new realm and, five years after his conquest, he had himself crowned King of Andalos in the Hills of Andalos, forcing recognition of the Free Cities to all the lands of Pentos. New waves of settlers from Westeros, funded by his father, had expanded Andalos all the way to the Rhoyne. Many of those peasants displaced by the war who had yet to settle had come over here, to new homes provided by their monarch.

For the last three years his brother had ruled Andalos from Pentos in their father"s name.

The city was much changed under the rule of Westeros. The most obvious visible difference was in the temple on the hill. When his father had arrived as a conqueror it had been a temple to the Red God, torn down, it was now a large sept, spreading the faith of the Seven. The manses of the Magisters were the property of the ruler, his father, rented out to the greater landed magnates in Andalos, that they might have a house of their own when they came to visit their ruler; the common tongue of Westeros had become the spoken word, the language of law and trade. The Hall of the Magisters, where they ruled their city, had become the trade hall, where rights of trade and passage were issued to merchants who wished to trade their wares in the city, they were reissued every two years, requiring re-payment, though a discount was offered to those who brought in their old ones. The scale mailed city watch were replaced by guardsmen in the sword and stag, patrolling the streets, keeping order, though the castle built opposite the sept also helped keep order here.

Arlan was waiting for him on the docks, a dozen guardsmen at his back. He was dressed in gold and purple silk, with a half cloak over his right shoulder in black velvet embroidered with the silver star and stag of Andalos. All across the docks were the people of Pentos. Urchins scaled the rooftops, mothers held their daughters close and fathers had sons on their shoulders to see the sails as they swept like grand swans of gold and grey and blue and black. In King's Landing they would have to have put to port in the Rush itself, but Pentos was larger and it's harbour was large enough for all of them to dock and disembark directly into the city.

He swept along the harbour, meeting his brother in a fierce embrace at the end. "Brother," he said after they pulled back, looking at each other. "You look well."

"And you," Arlan replied with a smile. "I've been waiting to see you ever since father sent word you would be leading the host."

Durran nodded. "And I you, ever since he told me I would be doing so. I'm sorry it took so long, but you know how difficult it can be." In times of war on the continent every lord was expected to come to it's defence. But levies and knights could not be called upon for obligation across the sea. That had been part of the reason his father had established the Order, so he would have a force able and willing to follow him in such an adventure. But that was not all. Special arrangements were made with lords who, in return for a stipend, would provide men and arms to serve under a royal host to the east, but it meant less than others. Cousin Ormund, was a great lord. In Westeros he could raise tens of thousands of soldiers. His identure agreement committed him to bring twenty knights, fifty men at arms and four hundred archers to a campaign in Essos in return for a monthly contribution of a hundred gold dragons every month more than six he was readying in Westeros, and two hundred for every month in Essos. Others like Ser Ronnel Crell had a smaller force to bring, Crell only committed to bringing one man at arms and four archers, but for a smaller stipend.

Arlan nodded with thin lips. "Oh do I just. But if you have as many men as I can judge in this fleet, it should be more than enough. Especially if you lead them."

"We lead them," he corrected his brother.

Arlan smiled. "Let's get your men set up with mine outside the city," he said, "then we can discuss the Dothraki and out next move against them." He turned to Durran"s companion. "Ser Beric, it"s good to see father could spare you."

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard smiled at them. His face was craggy now, tough and hard like rough leather, his hair was gone, shaved off several years ago when it started thinning. "His two eldest sons were riding to battle, he'd be damned if he let them go undefended."

"With you at our side, I feel beyond safe." Arlan replied. "Thank you for coming."

"I live to serve your father."

They left Beric outside with the army, he wanted to walk the troops, let them see the Dragonslayer and get some measure of the men they would be fighting with. He would join them later. Durran had expected his brother to take them to the grand stone castle on the hill, instead he was taken to an exotic building not far from the base of the hill. It was a large manor house, manned by two guards, with walls no higher than three men on each other's shoulders. When they passed in he heard running water and laughter. Under the shade of trees and canopies men and women in noble dress talked, laughed, sipped from cups of cold wine and water and lounged on soft recliners. Jugglers and musicians entertained them in their happiness as others examined great tapestries hanging from the walls and statues and statuettes placed in the courtyard of women and fish and knights and kings.

"What is this place?" He asked. Many of the nobles had bowed to them as they passed, both he and Arlan giving them leave to rise.

"My palace," he explained. "The castle is so far, so distant, and a dark place to be. I prefer it here. I hold court here and it's just a nicer place to be."

"What if it gets attacked?"

"There"s a secret passage to the castle," Arlan explained as they passed through a set of heavy oak doors carved with scenes of battle. Inside was a cool room with two recliners set before a great oak throne and a smaller one to it's side, their heads nearly kissing. Arlan sat down on one recliner and indicated for him to take the other. He sat down on it, sinking into the soft cushions of the thing. "Different, isn't it," Arlan commented.

"Quite," he replied. Arlan had lain back on his, stretching his legs out.

"You seem to have gone quite native," he commented.

Arlan looked to his clothing and nodded. "I have a little, but part of it is necessary. Most of the merchants and visiting dignitaries are more used to this sort of ruler than one clad in mail in a house of stone. Besides, it is more comfortable here. I only wish you could stay to enjoy it more, but we have business to attend to."

"Then why did we sit down?"

"We can attend to it here." Arlan clapped his hands and two servants entered, carrying a small desk between them. On it was an unfurled leather map, strapped to the desk. It was a worn map, the towns and holdfasts of Andalos set out there, the newer ones added in later were more vibrant and clear. Arlan swung his legs over the edge of the recliner and shifted the table so it was between them. "The Dorthraki," Arlan said.

Durran nodded. "It is why you requested help. What's happened? The city hardly looked to be in fear of an imminent attack."

"Nothing has been announced, but it will come soon, we know it." He reached out and tapped the map at the Rhoyne. "The Dothraki tried to force tribute from the townsfolk and fortress at Nymeria"s Ford, Warden of the Rhoyne, Lord Devan Seaworth checked them there and brought the cattle and supplies into the castle. The Dothraki were not able to sustain a siege, so were forced to leave. Scouts shadowed them north, they currently reside in the Hills of Andalos. They haven't moved since."

"The castles," Durran assumed. "They don't know what to do about them."

Arlan nodded. "Exactly. No demands have come for tribute yet, but they invaded, and will come again."

Durran nodded. He had read much about the Dothraki while the army was gathered and assembled and more on the voyage across the sea. "Tell me about this Khalasar," he said. "What do you know of it?"

"It's why I called you," Arlan replied. "From what we can tell, what we've seen and heard, Khal Urro has a Khalasar of some fifty thousand riders."

He did a double take. "Fifty thousand!"

Arlan nodded darkly. "Ten thousand of them are their screamers, bell braided hair, veterans."

Durran almost hesitated to ask. "And how many men can you call upon?" He had seen the army outside. It had not been fifty thousand strong, not even close.

"If we raised everyone, twenty five thousand, but we won't get everyone. I've sent out word for mercenaries. Craghas" Crossbows have come, as have the Stalwart Sentinels and a further thousand Myrish crossbowmen. With them we have twenty two thousand, and whatever you've brought."

"So twenty seven thousand in total," Durran muttered. Barely more than half their foe's number, and the Andalosi levies were hardly ideal warriors. "We'll need everything we can get."

"You've led in battle, I know this land," Arlan told him. "Together, we can defeat them."

They put their heads together and started to plan.

* * *

The Dothraki delegation arrived but two days later. They entered the city on great stallions, three great men, hair braided with bells that fell to the small of their back, arakhs and whips at their waists and bows on their horses.

The people turned out to see this as well, but this time out of fear, not desire to see their prince. The Dothraki warriors dismounted before the palace, where he and Arlan were waiting.

They sat on the recliners, leaving their father's throne empty behind them. The Dothraki looked around with their beady, almond eyes and copper skin at the treasures in the palace, no doubt hoping for it to be theirs.

"Greetings," Arlan told them. "We are honoured to receive the emissaries of the Great Khal Urro." His translator, a slender man with slicked black hair and thin lips spoke to the Dothraki in their language. When they replied in their thick horse language, the translator relayed the message.

"We bear the message of the Khal, and will hear you're reply. You chose to deny us passage across the great river, to stand before the Great Stallion and deny him passage. This is a grave error by you. You will pay tribute to the Great Stallion in forgiveness for this insult or you shall suffer his undying wrath. You should think of what happened to other countries and submit to us. You have heard how we have conquered vast empires and have purified the earth of the disorders that tainted it. We have conquered all the places a horse can ride, massacring all the people. You cannot escape from the terror of our armies. Our horses are swift, our arrows sharp, our swords like thunderbolts, our hearts as hard as the mountains, our soldiers as numerous as the grasses of the great sea. Stone towers will not detain us, nor armies stop us. Your prayers to God will not avail against us. We are not moved by tears nor touched by lamentations. Only those who beg our protection will be safe. Hasten your reply before the fire of war is kindled. Resist and you will suffer the most terrible catastrophes. We will shatter your temples and break your gods upon the Mother of Mountains and then will kill your children and your old men together, drowning them in the womb of the world. The city under the statue has paid it's tribute; those to the south came to us on their knees. You are the only foe against which we must ride."

A pregnant pause filled the courtroom. Noblemen and ladies whispered to each other in hushed tones as the translator conveyed the message, servants stood worriedly and more than one knight was itching their fingers near to their blades, eager to take the heads of these Dothraki warriors.

He glanced at Arlan, who nodded. They had agreed that he would make the declarations, give the main orders, Arlan may know this land but he didn't know war, Durran was the better war leader, and they could afford no divisions of command. He stood up. "Then you are the only foe against whom we must march," he declared to a round of cheers from the knights and lords gathered around. "Return to your Khal and tell him you have failed, he shall receive neither tribute nor supplication from the Kingdom of Andalos, and should he ride, he shall bleed, his horses shall be slain and gutted, his warriors slaughtered like sheep and his broken body left to the whims of the carrion birds. Tell him to come if he dares, and he shall find no men of milk and honey here, but of steel and fire, and we shall deal it to him in his turn."

Most diplomats would try to push their point again, but not the Dothraki, as soon as the cheers died down and the translator gave them their message, they turned and departed the room. Durran sat back down.

"Well done," a voice in his ear whispered. He turned to Beric who looked down at him with approval. "That was just what your father would have done."

He nodded. Perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn't, but it was what he would do. He disagreed with his father still, on much, but it didn't matter here. He would serve his lord, father and king and defend his land from these barbarians.

If he could find a way to defeat fifty thousand blooded and experienced warriors.


	23. The Prince of War 2

The army marched north five days later, thousands of feet drumming hard on the Valyrian road from Pentos to Braavos. The road was straight as a well forged lance; moving into the Hills of Andalos to the north, where the Dothraki horde should be waiting like a herd of braying beasts, ready to swarm over Andalos as a horde of ants. The road vastly sped up their progress, knights of the order, Andalosi warriors and mercenary soldiers could all move at more than twenty miles a day without trouble or forced marches. The Dothraki horde could likely cover fifty or more if their reputation was to be believed.

For the first three days they had the road to themselves. Then they met the refugees. First a trickle, peasant families with all their goods and worldly possessions upon them, fleeing for Pentos and the walls it provided. Then whole villages, people in the dozens and hundreds, fleeing south, telling tales of captured slaves, burned homes, and demons riding great hellhounds into battle, wielding curved blades of death, whips of flame and arrows like swarms of great bats.

Then they met the survivors.

His outriders came to him late in the day, with them were bedraggled soldiers in mail shirts and iron half helms, most clutching at wounds, one of them holding his leg in his arms, rough bandages wrapped tightly around the stump that was left.

"What happened?" He asked.

"We found them a day's ride north," the outrider captain replied. "They met the vanguard of the Dothraki horde, they were barely able to repel them."

He glanced at the ruins of soldiers that followed his outriders. "Repel them, they look like they're the meat at an abattoir."

"These are the wounded ones, the rest hold their position with Lord Devan."

"Devan!" His heart felt lighter. The Warden of the Rhoyne and his father's squire during the great war led them. "He was able to repel them?"

The outrider nodded. "It would seem so."

He glanced at Arlan. "How did he do it?" His brother asked.

"He seemed to use his supply wagons for protection," the Outrider said. "They are only a day ahead of us if you wish to see for yourselves."

He turned to Arlan, who nodded and they spurred their horses into action.

They found Lord Devan's forces huddled behind a triangle of wooden supply wagons. The supplies had been removed and dumped in a heap in the middle, guarded closely by men at arms in heavy armour, while the wagons themselves were held by a mix of archers, crossbowmen and footmen with long reaching glaives, flails and pikes. The horses that pulled the wagons were held in the middle as well.

Littered around the field were the corpses of horses and men, Dothraki with braided hair. Those scattered across the field seemed to have been felled by archers, while those up against the wagons bled from wounds inflicted by blade and spike.

"He's made a small fort," Arlan commented as they crossed the open field towards it.

Some of the defenders had left the fort to gather bows, arrows and blades from the slain Dothraki. They started to move back to the wagons, but returned to their task when it became clear the new riders were no Dothraki.

"Who approaches?" A voice demanded from the wagons. An armoured figure stood up above them, tall, broad, muscled and clad in mail, a black ship on a grey sail on his surcoat. Lord Devan.

"Princes Durran and Arlan Baratheon," he called back, pulling his horse to a halt. "Here to stop the Dothraki invaders."

Lord Devan gave a gesture to the wagons, presumably to archers and crossbowmen below.

"My Princes," he called, his voice easier than it had been. "I'm glad you're here. Please, come." They put their spurs to their horses again and rode to the wagon triangle. One of the wagons was dragged aside and a path opened to enter. Not seeing much space inside, they dismounted outside.

Lord Devan and the knights and men at arms bowed to them when they entered. "Prince Durran, Prince Arlan," he greeted, his voice weary. "I am most glad you've come," he repeated. "Though I feel I must ask, where is your father?"

He felt the sting of that in his stomach but let it fade. It was only expected that his father would come. Lord Devan was not trying to indicate that he was unworthy. "Father has entrusted me with the defence of Andalos, for he could not make the journey himself."

Devan nodded simply. "I see. Well, I learned long ago to trust his judgement, if he trusts you, so do I."

"Though you don't seem to need us," Arlan interrupted. He was looking around at the triangle of wagons with bewilderment. "You were able to repel an attack."

"A small one," Devan replied modestly. "No more than five hundred of them. But yes. Circumstance forced me to stand and fight, if I'd continued the march, they would've picked me off at distance. Instead, I forced them to attack me if they wanted to win. The Dothraki always want to win."

"And _this_ held them off," Durran asked. The wagons were parked together in a solid block, but they were _wagons_. You used them to cart supplies, not as fortifications.

Devan nodded. "You'd be surprised. Dothraki, for all their bluster of strength, lack a certain amount of tactical skill. These ones, at least, just attacked us. They tried with archers at first. I put my own archers and crossbowmen inside the wagons for protection, our armour protected the rest of us."

"How did wagons protect them?" Arlan asked. "Surely the arrows went right through the cloth?"

Devan shook his head, gesturing for them to come with him to one of the wagons. He pulled back the cloth cover and indicated the top. Below the cloth but wedged between the wooden bars was a latticework of interlocking shields, held up by what looked like spear shafts.

"And this was enough?" Arlan asked.

Devan nodded. "Their arrows couldn't get through, and in the open they were at the mercy of our own archers and crossbowmen, the Dothraki refusing to wear armour helped us in that regard. Then they tried to charge the wagons," he clambered inside and took up a pike. "But all it took was this," he thrust his pike out against the memories of incoming horsemen, "to get them to halt in their tracks. Those that got too close were cut down by pike and glaive and flail. The rest, well, even the lowliest trained archer can hit a target when it is only ten feet away."

"So simple," he muttered. He'd been fretting since they had seen off the Dothraki delegation about how to go about defeating such a force. Was this the answer? Perhaps. His father had used something similar against him at Meadow's Field, using his wagons to allow his archers height to fire over the locked shield walls. But he didn't like the idea here. It would limit him to a defensive engagement. If the Dothraki chose to bypass him and make for the towns and castles, or Pentos itself, he would be unable to stop them. "But it can't work, not against a whole horde."

Arlan nodded. "We'd never get them to attack us."

"And even if we did, they'd retreat when they saw they couldn't overcome it. And trapped here, we couldn't pursue. They'll move on to a softer target."

"Unless you force them to attack here." Beric approached them, bald head and white steel plate gleaming in the sun.

"Ser Beric!"Lord Devan grinned at the knight.

Beric smiled back. "Lord Devan. You look well."

"I am, and you are old."

Beric laughed. "That I am, Devan, that I am. But back to what I was saying. My Prince, I agree with what you say. The answer is to force them to attack here. Make it a matter of pride for them, make it so their Khal has to attack or lose everything."

"And how do I do that?" He asked. "I know nothing of him or his culture, I don't know what makes him proud or how to hurt him or bring him to us. And even if I did, I don't have the means to do so."

"Perhaps, or perhaps not," Beric said. "But there are methods we can employ."

"Make them think us weak; capture something of personal importance to him or make us an obstacle that he has to overcome or lose. I know how to make war, Ser Beric, but I've never fought the Dothraki before."

"No more than they have fought you before," Beric reminded him. "And who do you think knows more about the other's methods of war, you or a race of horsemen?"

"He's right brother," Arlan added, gripping his shoulder tightly. "We know how the Dothraki will fight and can guarantee it-"

"More accurately assume it," he interrupted his brother. "Do not guarantee it, that is a route to failure and loss. But in essence, you're right.

Devan began with the information. "We know they fight a horse, and we know that this formation can stop it."

"We know they are committed to our destruction," said Arlan.

"We know that they always return for vengeance."

"Stop!" He cut across Beric. That was it. "They return for vengeance. And Devan, you defeated them here." His father would have waited to hear more. But this was the beginnings of a plan here. He would draw out every string he could find when he found them, and this was one that could unravel an entire tapestry. "Could we goad them into returning here to avenge that defeat?"

Arlan folded his arms. "Not with the defeat alone. It wasn't substantial enough. But perhaps if we were to do more to them."

"How? What can we do to them?"

"Their dead."

"What?" He asked his brother.

"They burn their fallen warriors on pyres. Desecrate the bodies and they will come to answer for the insult."

Pride. The easiest wound to make on anyone, and Dothraki are very proud of themselves. "Bring me a map," he said.

One was brought over to them and unfurled. "The Dothraki horde is somewhere to the North, yes?" He asked as he traced his fingers over the rough map in the headwaters of the Rhoyne.

Arlan nodded. "When last we heard, yes."

He ran a finger in a straight line down from the headwaters to Pentos. "What if we gather the bodies along the road, here," he pointed at the map, just north of a small cluster of hills. "Pile them up and leave them to rot. Then here," he dragged his finger back to the hills, we set up a wagon fort like this one, just in view of the bodies so when they find the bodies they also find us."

"That could work," Beric said. "But how do we get them to come to us."

"I can handle that, all I need is one crate of gold."

"How?" He asked the aged knight. His father trusted Beric with more than just his life, but he would hear an entire plan before committing to it.

"I bring that to the Khal, calling it tribute, I say that there is more waiting at the road, lead them to the bodies, then break to join you while they recover from the shock, they'll pursue me, and come into contact with you and the army."

"And still incensed by rage, they attack," he finished the plan. That would work, and if they drove them off for one day they would be incensed further. An angry foe could be more easily beaten. "What do you think brother?"

Arlan was less certain. "Can we make all the wagons into defences like this?" He asked, looking around at the one they were in. "And do we have enough to shield the whole army."

"I don't know that we have the time to dither," Beric said. "Remember, this Khal has sworn to reduce Andalos to rubble and ruin. He will be coming soon. It is the beginning of a good plan, that is more than can be said otherwise."

"We can work out what to do with the rest of the army, my princes, but if we are to move the Dothraki corpses we must do so now."

"Arlan?" He asked his brother, looking him in the eye. If Arlan wouldn't agree, he would have to take control without his brother's approval. His brother looked back at him with their father's eyes. He nodded. He turned to Beric, relief boiling within him. "Beric, going to the Dothraki will be dangerous, do you think you can do it?"

"I've killed a dragon before. Dothraki won"t stop me."

"Then go, collect what you need from the supply caravan. "Devan, see to the collection of the corpses and bring them to the chosen battleground, Arlan, you and I will return to the host and move it to the hills. We need to study the ground and prepare, but together, we'll smash this barbarian horde."

"Together, my brother," Arlan confirmed. "For our father."

"Yes," he replied, biting the inside of his mouth. "For our father."


	24. The Prince of War 3

The sun beat down on the heads of the men as they toiled in the Andalosi heat. The two hills behind them rose like swimmers" heads bobbing above the water. The hills had a steep descent, nearly as flat as a shin; he wouldn't want to charge down there, and hopefully, neither would the Dothraki.

"Will we be ready in time?" Arlan asked him. His brother had stripped out from his armour, the sweat beading on his shoulders and face.

He glanced around at the wagons. They had dragged every wagon they could find, seizing everything from grand merchant wagons, pulled by great oxen, to the lowliest hand pulled cart of farmers. The men were heaving them into position, grunting with the effort. Anyone with any kind of experience with a hammer and nail was securing wooden beams where they lacked the shields for protection. They were pulling out all the stops trying to ready their large square of wagons, they had to be ready for when the Dothraki arrived, or they'd be slaughtered. "They have to be, _we_ have to."

Arlan seemed relieved to hear him say it. "I hope you're right. One thing's for certain brother, they won't miss the fort, it's huge."

That it was. While the thousands of archers and crossbowmen would be shielded inside the wagons as much as possible, inside the wagon fort would be every man at arms, dismounted knight and squire they could find. They would don their plate mail, close their visors and weather the oncoming storm of arrows from the Dothraki. They could arrange whole battle formations in this place with relative ease and, should the Dothraki break through, they would have the freedom to manoeuvre with ease.

But that was only one part of his plan. Defence was all well and good, but it didn't win wars. They had to take the offensive at some stage. But that left the obvious question of command. "Will you go and join the reserve soon brother?" Arlan asked him.

"You think I should?"

Arlan nodded. "It is a cavalry force, you have commanded knights more than me."

"Against our father, not the Dothraki," Durran reminded him. "This is an all together different battle." But it was true that he had more command experience of knights than Arlan did. And the thrill of a cavalry charge, swooping in, swords gleaming and lances lowered, punching into the Dothraki like an armoured fist, the lure was undeniable, sweeping like ghosts through the dust kicked up by over fifty thousand horses. But was that enough to give him command? No. "I'm more than willing to take command of the wagon fort," he assured his brother. "The timing of everything must be right, and this is my plan, after all. I feel I should be here to direct things."

"You want me to take command of the horse then?"

"One of us must be here, and one of us must be there. If I am here, that leaves you."

Arlan glanced back at the hills. "Of course the whole plan is foiled if they discover the ambush first."

"They won't be coming here scouting for war," he reminded his brother. "They'll be coming looking for tribute, then they'll see the Dothraki bodies and the fort, put two and two together and attack, after all, we've hardly been respectful." He glanced out to the north. Even from here they could see the massive pile of rotting man and horseflesh, dumped unceremoniously on the ground, only waiting to be discovered. "They're an arrogant and proud people, these horse lords, they won't stomach such an insult by men who hide behind wagons, they'll attack us. I guarantee it."

"I hope you're right brother."

"Back to the commands," Durran said, not wanting his brother to dwell on possibilities. Every battle was a risk, could make or break a kingdom or a people. It was up to him to make sure it wasn't them. "I will command here," he said. "This is my plan, my decision, and the harder part to play. I trust the horsemen to your care. I know you will command them ably and well, and will be able to save us. If not, you'll still have a force to combat the Dothraki with, should we fail."

"You think we'll fail?"

"I will be relying on you to make sure it doesn't," he replied. In truth, if he commanded the fort, most of the responsibility was his, but Arlan had ever been the dutiful brother, coming to his aid as a child, fighting against him in the name of their father. His assurance of reliance would make Arlan fight harder, act with determination, and that would be what he needed in the coming battle.

"If you're sure..."

"I always am." He clapped his brother on the back.

Arlan couldn't help but smile at him. He'd always had that way with him, with many. "Well then," he said. "I suppose I'd better go make sure they know I'm to command them. Take care brother." They embraced tightly before Arlan left to go to the horse.

He had a moment of peace, taking a deep breath of hot air, before he was accosted from behind. "My Prince."

"Lord Devan," he turned to the Warden of the Rhoyne who was pushing his way past some nervous looking men at arms. "What is it?"

"The drilling is going well as things currently stand, the men should be ready. Of course, I can't say what they'll do when confronted by fifty thousand screamers."

"They'll hold," Durran assured him. "They have to."

Devan nodded. "I hope so. But we may soon be reliant only on hope, our scouts have reported in."

He swallowed. "And?"

"Half a day north of the body pile they saw the streams of dust kicked up by the horde."

He closed his eyes. "So this is it."

"It would seem," Devan replied. "Shall we tell the men."

He nodded. "Tell them, and send the last non combatants back to Pentos. Now is the time for soldiers."

"I'll see to it," Devan said. "They'll be going by the evening."

"Good. If you'll excuse me, I must write a letter home in case..." He didn't finish, and Devan didn"t push.

"Of course, my prince."

He found a secluded place in one of the wagons and knelt to write.

 _Laena_

 _The time has come, the Dothraki are soon to be upon us, and we shall either break them or be broken in turn. By the time you receive this letter, the battle will be long done, so I will not ask you to pray for me only hope that you have been so far._

 _Arlan and I are as ready as we will ever be, armed and armoured. We are prepared and ready. We do not lack for heart or will, and nor do the men. We shall fight and defeat the Dothraki and endeavour to return to you as soon as we are done, with a great victory to my name._

 _Tell Stannis and Boremund that I love them, and I pray you kiss them both for me. Tell Stannis he is to continue with his studies, and that I shall hope to have him start with the sword soon after my return. I know Boremund understands little. I hope I do not miss his first steps and words and that you tell him of me often. I hope that you treat yourself well as well, keep in good health and spirits and find yourself content. You have ever been a noble and gracious wife, and I hope these qualities remain strong within you._

 _I hope that father and mother are well also. Tell father I aim to do him proud and protect his realm, as does Arlan. Tell mother I hope she is well and in good health, and plan to return shortly. I know he can sometimes be trouble, but let Robert know that I wish he were here and hope he understands father"s reasons for not letting him come, and that I am proud of his years of service as a squire. If you do not wish to, I understand, but I only have time for this one letter, so cannot write him in person._

 _I hope Cat is well, and that father finds a good husband for her, a lord worthy of her. Tell her I love her and that I hope to be with her soon._

 _And if you see Cass, tell her not to touch what is mine_

 _Your husband_

 _Durran_

He would no doubt have other messages he wanted to send, but he had to give it to the caravan leaving for Pentos now, or he'd miss it, and no one would get a message from him, perhaps final message.

He gave it to the column heading south with instructions to send the letter on to his family at King's Landing, then went to sleep with his men under the stars, and pray that he didn't dream of Dothraki screamers attacking them in the night.

He was awoken by calls that the sentries spotted a rider coming in. He rushed to the north and clambered up on a wagon. There was indeed a rider incoming.

As it got close he smiled in relief. It was Ser Beric. "Open up," he said. The wagons were hauled apart and Beric rode inside the fort, pulling his horse to a halt.

He dismounted. "My Princes," he said to him and Arlan, who had come back to sleep in the wagon fort.

"You're back, Ser Beric," he said.

"I am," he said. "But I'm not alone for long I suspect."

"You were meant to bring them to the bodies," Arlan pointed out. "They aren't there."

Beric nodded. "I know, but they were planning to circle around and head straight for Pentos, they feared a trap. Not anymore."

"Now they don't fear a trap?" He asked.

"No, but now they have to follow me, at least, if they want these back." He returned to his horse and pulled three severed heads out of one of his saddlebag.

There was a pregnant pause in the air. "And they are?" They were clearly Dothraki, he could see that much, one woman and two younger men, but they must be important for Beric to have singled them out.

"This is the Khal's third and favourite wife, and these are his sons by her."

"That will enrage him," he muttered. "But will they follow or suspect a further trap," Arlan asked.

"That's already decided, my prince," Lord Devan said, pointing out to the horizon. The telltale signs of swirling dust were gathered there, twirling like plumes of smoke. "Less than half a day out, I'd say."

"They'll likely soon find the bodies and see us," Durran concluded. "Put the heads on spikes and mount them in front of the fort. Rouse the camp, gather everyone to arms and armour, and tell them the enemy are coming, we shall break the Dothraki and do it today."

As the gathered men scattered to alert the camp and make ready for battle Arlan turned to him. "This is it brother."

He nodded. "I know, I'll see you on the field of victory brother." They embraced.

This was it. He was ready.


	25. The Prince of War 4

The dust kicked up by the oncoming horde looked like the smoke of a great dragon snorting in rage, their ululations and screams of battle, blood lust and rage sent a shiver down his spine, even though they were only faint whispers for now.

"Make ready, everyone!"

His men were rushing to and fro; archers and crossbowmen checking their weapons, the last bundles of arrows taken to the shielded wagons and knights and men at arms pulled on their armour and readied their weapons. They stood in strong squares, ready to face down the Dothraki screamers in a fight for their very survival.

The wait was worst of all. They watched the smoke get closer and closer, like an oncoming avalanche, engulfing the pile of bodies and still coming, they would hit them in the afternoon, after a day of riding and screaming. He had to hope that they were worn out from that, he had to hope for a lot of things now.

When the whispers became shouts he took his last gulp of fresh air and pulled his helmet on over his head, slamming the visor shut. His vision became next to nothing, only a thin strip of light in the darkness. But that would be what saved his life.

His narrowed vision meant that he could hardly see the arrows, but he felt them as they rained down on him, falling like hailstones on the top of his helmet and hammering into his armour.

He grunted as he weathered the arrows that bounced off the steel plate, leaving no more than a dent in the metal. These Dothraki had clearly not faced full plate armour before, their arrows were coming in at all sorts of angles, but they needed to fly straight and true if they wanted to get through the armour of a knight. Arrows were scattered on the ground around him, some laying flat and lame, their heads completely blunted, others were stuck into the ground, part of the unceasing hail of arrows. Shaft after shaft plunged down on them from above, ringing off his armour from all sides as the enemy horse archers began to swarm around the wagon fort. One knight fell to his knees before him, one lucky shaft stuck in the gap between breastplate and greaves, but it wasn't deep and the knight yanked the arrow out quickly. Two more arrows hammered on his back, but he got to his feet once more and stood tall.

He had to hope that his archers and crossbowmen were shooting back at the Dothraki. He trusted them to do so, and right now very arrow that fell on or around him was one that wasn't shooting at them.

Eventually the hail turned to a shower, raining down on them; then it became spittle, the occasional arrow striking armour or dirt but they were beyond it being a threat to them anymore.

He looked around, through the slit in his visor he saw a few dead knights and men at arms, with more clutching at their armour, yanking arrows out that hadn't completely penetrated the plate metal. But most of his men were on their feet, standing tall and strong. He drew his sword and held it high. Now was the time to repel the coming assault. If he shouted he wouldn't be heard over the ululating screams of the Dothraki horde, so he simply charged, knowing those near him would follow and those near them would do the same.

He raced for the wagon wall, knowing that the Dothraki would come at the wall and try to breach it if they wanted to win this battle. His sword had served it's purpose in rallying the army, he sheathed it and snatched up a spear from outside the wagons, where all kinds of lengthy weapons had been stockpiled for the defence of the fort. His archers and crossbowmen were still shooting arrow and bolt into the enemy, catching horse and rider armourless and slaying them. The Dothraki were riding close, thrusting with spears and hacking at arakhs slashing on wood and trying to reach the archers ad break through the fort. He thrust out with his spear, punching into the chest of the nearest rider, dragging him from the horse.

These Dothraki were utter fools. Their archers loosed their final arrows, but they kept on charging the wagon fort, met with spear and polearm by the men at arms, driving away their horses and killing any who got too close. They could swarm over the wagon fort if they would only dismount and charge that way. But they were so devoted to their art of horse riding that they refused to do that, and all they could do was charge again and again, and be repelled again and again.

But as they did this time after time, his men grew weary and exhausted. The Dothraki could cycle their charges, but his men needed to be at the fort at all times, repelling each charge with not time to rest. Soon he would need to spring his trap. He made his way around the fort, making sure that all the defenders saw him fighting alongside them, encouraging them with his own efforts. He had to push harder than then, strike with more daring, if he was to keep them fighting.

Soon he made it around to the west side of the fort, facing the sea. Lord Seaworth had the command here. "My Prince," he panted, his halberd stained with blood and corpses of Dothraki riders and horses up against the side of the fort. "Is it time?"

He nodded. "We need to spring the trap now, if not now, we'll be worn down, and they'll take the field."

Devan nodded. "Bring the chains and horses, now!"

"I'll see to this," he told the lord. "You get everyone to the fort, make them ready."

Devan nodded and raced off.

Half a dozen horses were brought up, and chains wrapped to two of the wagons before being strapped to the horses. "When I give the word!" He held up his hand, waiting, waiting for the enemy to pull back and prepare for a fresh charge. "Now!"

The horses were put to actions, pulling with all their strength until the wagons gave way and were pulled out of place, leaving a gap in the fort wall for the enemy to come in. _Gods help us_ , he thought. This had better work. "Back to the fort, now!"

The Dothraki were quick to reach, racing for the break in the wagon fort. At first they came in in ones and twos before being cut down by arrow, bolt and polearm. But soon they came in tens and twenties, and for every one that was cut down, two or three broke into the centre of the fort. _It's in your hands now, brother. Don't let me down._

He thrust up at a Dothraki rider who charged at him, spearing him in the side before his arakh could spark off his armour The rider's horse tried to halt itself, but three great spikes punched into it's chest. They kept swarming in, his knights and men at arms pushed back against the walls of the fort, but they kept fighting, with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, they could only fight for their personal survival and their honour, and that meant having their back to the fort, thrusting out with spear and halberd. By now his archers had loosed their arrows and had taken up spears and swords. There was no end to them as they poured through the opened gap of his defences. Arlan had to strike soon or he was dead.

But soon the Dothraki's sheer mass of force began to work against them, they had to spend more time keeping their horses out of the way of each other than charging him and his men, but still they refused to dismount. Soon his braver men found their hearts and they would charge out, dealing damage and death before retreating back to the forts while those with less courage held the line at the back, the last thing he wanted was to lose his army amidst those hooves.

Soon he heard the warhorns. He turned and pulled himself up to the edge of the wagon fort. By now most of the Dothraki horde had been brought into the fort, but there were still many outside, but they were scattering before a force of armoured knights, charging with lance and sword in hand, his brother at the fore. The Dothraki had no archers left and their swords couldn't break through the armour of charging knights, so they sped out of the way, leaving the path to the break in the fort wide open.

Their lances took the swelling mass of Dothraki hard, slaying horses and riders and clearing a way in. This was his chance, the great strength of the Dothraki horde was trapped in his fort, unable to retreat, clustered together like wheat, ready to be cut.

"Charge!" He roared and led his men in a final assault on the trapped Dothraki screamers.

()()()

It was a catastrophic slaughter. Thousands of men had died at Meadow's Field, but tens of thousands were slain here, horses and men both. His men had no interest in prisoners of the Dothraki and neither did he. Every single screamer inside the fort was dead by nightfall, their twisted, pierced and hacked bodies staining the ground with their life blood.

He found Arlan sitting on the carcass of a Dothraki horse. "Durran!" He breathed a sigh of relief. "I was just about to come looking for you. I feared..."

"That I was dead," he finished for his brother. "Not so brother. I survived, and so did you." He pulled his brother into a tight embrace. "We won."

Arlan nodded. "We won," he whispered back."

"My Princes." They pulled apart as Lord Devan approached. Seaworth's surcoat was cut to ribbons and his armour coated in scratches from Dothraki blades, but other than that he seemed unharmed.

"Lord Devan," Arlan sounded relieved. "You survived."

"I did, my princes but..."

"But what?" Durran asked.

Lord Devan beckoned them on. "This way, my Princes."

"No," Arlan gasped when they saw what Devan was bringing them to.

The Dothraki Khal was splayed out on the ground, his chest opened with a deep cut across it. Around him lay his bloodriders who'd died to a man protecting their khal. Next to the Khal, his hand still clutching the sword of the Old Targaryen Kings, his white armour caked in blood and dust was Beric. "He killed the Khal, but the Bloodriders were too many," Devan said as Durran knelt beside his father's greatest and most loyal champion. "I tried to reach him but, I couldn't, not in time."

"Dying in service to his king. Beric could only have done more had he stood between those blades and our father," he commented. He reached out and closed the knight's eyes. "He served with honour and loyalty." He stood up. "We must preserve his body, he must be taken home. Father would never forgive us if we left him here."

"No, he wouldn't" Arlan agreed.

"I'll see to it," Devan said at once.

Durran took Beric's hands and lay them across his chest, Blackfyre clutched beneath them. "Be at peace, Ser Beric. I'll commend you to our father."


	26. The Prince of War 5

I"m sorry father," he said as they looked at the body of the Dragonslayer lain out on a slab before them. "I know you were close."

"Closer than anyone. There were things Beric knew about me that no one else did, not even your mother," his father replied as he looked down at the body of his sworn protector.

They had left Andalos shortly after the battle to bring Beric home. The day after the battle the survivors came to them and cut off their braids, laying them at their feet. They had claimed the treasure the Dothraki had taken so far and then escorted them from Andalos. Then, leaving Devan to and the army to watch over Andalos, they came home. Their parents had been filled with joy to see them safe and sound but that joy had turned to sadness when they saw Beric being carried off the ship.

Now they were here, in the Sword Sept, established by his father, just north of King's Landing to house the bodies of the Kingsguard Beric was lying on the slab, ready to be interred. The city had also mourned his loss, coming out onto the streets to pay their respects as the legendary knight was carried through the streets before coming to the sept.

"I'm sorry, Myrcella," their father said. On Beric's other side was his aunt Myrcella. Normally she spent her time at the Healer's Tower. After the Ironborn assault devastated Oldtown, his father had seen the weakness of keeping all Maesters in training in one place. Instead he established several towers to teach the individual arts to initiate maesters. The healer's tower was a few days up the Rush from King's Landing, and Myrcella taught there. Normally women were not permitted to study or teach, but having the iron king as a brother gave Myrcella benefits.

She looked up at him. Myrcella was still very pretty, but the pure beauty of her younger years, beauty that had even made him turn his head was gone now. "I only thank you for letting me come, brother, thank you for telling me. Beric and I... we realised our folly long ago when Calla never took a breath." He bowed his own head. He knew about Beric and Myrcella's child, it had been stillborn at Harrenhal. His father never knew of the pregnancy until after the fact; but the romance hat had gone between Beric and Myrcella ended that day when they realised they both cared more for their duties than each other.

"Your Grace," the septon said, shuffling forwards. "It is time." Their father nodded before stepping back and allowing the knight's body to be taken away. They watched as he was lowered into the earth, arms rested across his chest, his expression like he was merely napping.

They stayed while the funeral was finished before they returned to King's Landing.

"I'd never thought that he'd die without me there," their father said in his solar that evening. It was just the four of them now, him Arlan, father and mother. Robert and Cat were both busy. "I should have been there at the end."

"Don't be a fool Jasper," his mother replied softly, taking his hand. "You know that wasn't possible."

"Not possible?" Arlan asked, bewildered. "What do you mean? I thought you sent Durran-"

"-because he needed to fight in his own right?" Their father finished, looking up at them. "That is not untrue, but is not the only reason. Gathering an army, sailing the Narrow Sea, fighting a campaign against the Dothraki, day in and day out spent on horseback, fighting for my life against a horde of screamers... Such things are beyond me now."

"Beyond you?" Durran asked.

Their father nodded, up at them with an expression of sorrow and self pity. "This," he said, reaching up and tapping the shadows that snaked across his face. "It's been getting worse. It gets hot... very hot. I find my energy sapped ever more quickly. My heart, it slows and speeds up all on it's own and wearing armour is too much for me now. Look at my eye." They did and Durran saw at once what his father meant. How had he not seen it before? Their father's burning red eye was dimming. Where before there had been a raging furnace it now looked like a candle in comparison. He never would have thought it. His father always seemed so strong, held himself tall and proud but there was truth to what he said. He was growing weaker. "There are no records to consult," he added, "no mentions of anyone suffering from this in history, and why would there be, the White Demons had been gone for thousands of years, before they even had the decency to write things down. And now, here I am. The Grand Maester and Myrcella both agree on what it all means. I'm dying."

"What?" Arlan breathed.

Their father nodded. "It may be days away, it may be months it may be a few years, but I am not long for this world, and the two of you will have to prepare for what that means."

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "What does that mean, father?"

He sat back. "Any doubts I had about the safety of my realms when I died were dispelled when I heard of your great victory against the Dothraki, but now there are preparations to be made.

"Preparations?"

He nodded. "I have made a decision, based on my own reign, not you," he said. "But Westeros is too vast to sustain an empire overseas as well. As such I intend to divide my crowns upon my death. You Durran, will inherit Westeros, and everything that comes with it, and you, Arlan shall become the King of Andalos."

"What?" He demanded.

"You heard me," his father said. "It is my hope that the two of you will work together as kings of your two realms, but they are too different from each other. In law and culture, Andalos and Pentos are too different to sustain as a single realm." He fixed Durran with a firm gaze. "I know you have a vision of Westeros for yourself, and when you become King it will be your right to lead it down that path, but you wouldn't be able to do the same with Andalos as well."

"But, what about the Order, father?" Arlan asked. "The defence of Andalos depends on them, but the head of the Order will be Durran."

He nodded. "It is true, he will be. That is why you two shall remain here while we settle matters such as this." He clenched a fist. He had been Hand of the King for years, had he not regained his father's trust? Why was he only hearing about this now? "Or if you think you can bring the two kingdoms across the water together into one, then the two of you can rejoin them. But know this," he cautioned. "I have seen and done many things in my reign, but I will consider it all a failure if, after it has ended, my two sons go to war with each other over what I have built."

"We are brothers father," Arlan said earnestly. "More than that we have been at war before. I have no desire to return to that."

"Nor I," Durran said. He had no desire to return to war with his family, it had been forced on him before, and he stood by his decision to do it, but a war, to add the resources of Andalos to Westeros. That was too little to call for war on his brother. He could get exactly what he needed from them through easy trade and the ready relationship with his brother without having to commit to a costly invasion and occupation.

Their father nodded. "Good," he said, relief slipping from his mouth. "Very good."

* * *

 _Extract from "A Vengeful and Just King" – Chapter 11 – The Final Years_

When Jasper ordered his sons to defeat the Dothraki invasion he clearly seems to have meant it as a final test. By this point it is likely that Jasper knew he was dying, judging by the accounts of him, and wanted to ensure a smooth succession. This was a priority to him who had seen Westeros fall apart so completely after his father's death, and one of his driving ambitions had been to restore the kingdom. And now he could spend his final years in a little more comfort, in the full knowledge that there was an able heir to both his realms of Andalos and Westeros ready to succeed him.

The significance of the battle, still celebrated today in Andalos, cannot be understated, certainly not for the significance it had for Jasper's children. Prince Durran had accounted himself well in the Battle of Meadows Field, but now he had a great victory of his own under his belt, proving his talents for all to see that he would fulfil the most important of his titles. Protector of the Realm.

The defeat of the last Dothraki invasion of the Free Cities has been seen mostly in the trend of the Dothraki decline. It would be the very next year, likely inspired by the defeat of the Dothraki in Andalos, and tired of fending and paying off their raids on his northern border that Emperor Marghaz would order his legions north and they would raze Vaes Dothrak to the ground, signalling the final decline of the Dothraki.

 ** _A/N:_ Okay, so coming up is the final installment of this series, I'm sure you can all guess what it's going to cover. It should be coming out soon, I've been getting a lot of work done on these chapters lately and progress is good.**

 **Until then stay safe**

 **Psykic Ninja**


	27. The Passing of Jasper 1

**The Passing of Jasper - 25 AVJ**

 **Arya Baratheon**

As had become commonplace over the last few years, the queen awoke before her husband. The spring breeze was wafting through the windows they'd left open last night, and every night. It had been one of the first indicators that something was happening to Jasper. As last winter came to a close, he had started sleeping on top of the covers, saying they were too hot, too stifling for him. Now of course, they knew it was the curse of the Red Priests coming back to haunt him once more.

She sat up and let the sheets fall down to her waist as she leant over to Jasper, gently shaking him to see if he was truly asleep, or just resting. But he sleeping as deeply as an ocean. She sighed. If only she could stay here and rouse him, bring him to the world of the living again, but she had duties of her own, and she had to attend to them. She slipped out of the bed and made her way over to the window and the camp bed beneath it. She pulled open the heavy curtains and the figure in the small bed groaned softly as the light blanketed their face. "M-mother?" Cat croaked, propping herself up on one elbow and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "Is it time to get up?"

"It is, Cat," she replied softly. For almost a year now, Cat had been sleeping in their chambers, ready to help with whatever was needed for her beloved father. "I need you to get your father up again."

Cat looked over at her father and nodded. "Of course mother," she said pushing the covers down and getting out of bed. Her daughter had grown into a perfect princess, slender and beautiful and, in her white nightgown, she looked so pure. Cat gently climbed onto the bed, propping herself up beside her father and easing him awake. Leaving them to it, Arya called her dressers, if her husband needed to sleep in then the castle needed to be going about it's business without him, and she would have to inform them, starting with their son.

The Small Council was much different now. No one remained from the old days before the war. Ser Beric had been the last, and she had not been alone in feeling his loss. Jasper had confided in her that he felt surrounded by shadows and unknown entities. Lord Bryce Caron had fallen ill and resigned his position as Master of Laws, returning to the Dornish Marches, and Lord Mooton cited old age as his reasoning for returning to Maidenpool. The only somewhat familiar face left was the Master of Whisperers, the hawkish Ser Marlon. And her son of course, the badge of Hand fixed to his breast. Her nephew was also there. Young Ned, they called him. After Lord Bryce and Mooton had resigned, Durran had offered two of his companions, Young Ned and Hoster Tully to replace them. Jasper had allowed Durran to have Ned there, his future Hand she expected, as Master of Laws, but had appointed Ser Edryn of Gulltown as Master of Coin, an elder, wiser man, who owed more to the king than the prince.

"Mother," Durran said, standing up in respect. "Has something happened?"

"No, nothing serious," she replied with a smile. "But your father is occupied and he needs you to chair this meeting."

Durran nodded. "Of course mother." He'd been chairing more and more of them lately and was taking it more in stride every time.

She nodded. "Good, the rest of you, advise my son well. Especially you Ned, you were always able to get through to him."

Ned smiled through his auburn hair which fell around his shoulders. "I'll try aunt Arya."

"See that you do," she said with a smile before turning and leaving the council to it's work.

She made her way back to her husband, stopping off in the courtyard to be a royal presence for the young squires and pages learning arms in the King's Household. Youths from across Westeros were bonding here, including her grandson Stannis, Boremund wasn't yet old enough to start training in arms, and was likely with his mother. Chief of them all though was her youngest son Robert, tall, broad, bearded and fearsome, clashing with live steel against one of Lord Blacktydes sons.

After observing politely, praising several of them at times, she returned to her husband.

Jasper was sat upright now, drinking his breakfast broth, a limp grey sludge that was easy to swallow, less so to taste.

"Come now father, just a few more mouthfuls," Cat urged him, sat up closely against her father, bowl of cold water to her side and smiling encouragingly as he grimaced his way through the next spoonful of broth.

"Ah look," Jasper said, voice laden with sarcasm. "My valiant wife is here to save me from the broth."

"Not this time, Jasper," she replied softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Come now, eat up, the faster you eat, the sooner you can forget about it."

"Forget this filth, not likely," he growled. "It's worse than sewage and it-"

"Calm down, father," Cat said soothingly and Jasper's fist slackened around his spoon. Cat stroked her father's scalp soothingly with her left hand and reached to the bowl with her right. She took out the cloth and squeezed it out before dabbing at the left side of Jasper's face. He let out a sigh of relief from the burning feeling that constantly plagued him. She still hated the whisps of steam that rose from those shadow marks whenever they were doused for a few hours of relief. It used to be a minor annoyance, but now, if they weren't doused every few hours they became a searing pain. She had kissed him on them once when they were burning and felt the heat sear through her lips like a hot iron. Living with that pain every day was something that she couldn't understand.

Jasper relaxed under his daughter's ministrations and ate the rest of his broth without complaint. She was the perfect attendant to him, able to soothe his anger and help him through the worst of his ailments, and simply providing happy, smiling company. Her husband's heart may well have burst from stress had she not been there to make him smile and forget his woes for minutes or hours. Many had written to the King, offering lords and sons to serve as his daughter's husband, but the nineteen year old was still unmarried. Jasper wanted his daughter with him for his final years, and Cat wanted to be there for her father.

"So," he asked as Cat took his tray away and he sat back, propped up against pillows and headboard. "What happens now, I assume that Durran is handling the council meeting."

She nodded. "He is, the day is yours Jasper."

"And I refuse to spend it stuck in this bed," he added, pushing the covers up and getting to his feet unsteadily. He took a moment to steady himself. "Summon my dressers, I'm going for a ride through the city, we'll go to the Hill of the First Men."

Despite his body failing him, Jasper refused to be pulled in a carriage, he needed his people to see him as strong to the end, so when they went riding through the city he always rode on his horse, leading them through the streets, passing out coppers to the poor and touching the heads of the commoners. Occasionally a newborn would be raised to him and he would give it his blessing and the royal touch.

Once they reached the Hill of the first men they would hand the horses to the squires, chosen from the noble sons at the court, and walk the large garden. The Kingsguard came with them, often not in armour, but always with their cloaks and swords. Again, the organisation was becoming less and less familiar. The only survivor from the war was Ser Balon, who's hair was silver turning white, with newcomers taking the newer places. The garden was open to the people who wished to use it, but they always allowed their king his space when he came to visit his grand garden, and when they came to the central weirwood they were allowed their own private peace.

"I've always liked it here," Jasper commented softly as he rested his head against the tree.

"Can't escape the stink though, father," Robert commented, broodingly. Thankfully Robert knew not to push the topic further, though it was understandable. Ever since Jasper had revealed his intention to split his crowns after his death, leaving one to Durran and one to Arlan, Robert had been angry that he was left out. But, as Jasper had told him, it was now beyond his ability to conquer a third crown. But there were many heiresses and lands he could still bestow on Robert upon his death, or money to fund his own conquest somewhere. Robert had understood, he wasn't as hot headed as his namesake, but she could understand his anger, left out of getting a crown simply by being the third born son.

"No," Jasper commented with a smile. "No you can't, but I can't fix everything... I don't have the time anymore..."

"Come now father," Cat chided him, spinning in her beautiful airy dress of silver and gold. "No talk like that."

"What should we talk about then?" Jasper asked, looking at his daughter.

"What about Robert?" Cat said, smiling down at her brother. "You still haven't told us about that victory in the melee last month."

"You don't want to hear about that," Robert replied, face flushing.

"Yes I do," Cat said.

She laughed. "Oh Robert, haven't you learned by now, you don't need to tell Cat what she does and doesn't want."

Robert chuckled and gave in.

They spent a happy afternoon swapping stories, family and Kingsguard. Jasper had always been certain to keep the Kingsguard close, learning from his father, who hadn't, and allowed them to be usurped by the Lannisters, he dined and talked with his Kingsguard, knowing them, and them knowing him in turn. Cat gushed at Ser Leygrance's tales of his time as a Nights Watch ranger, and Robert spoke in depth with Ser Forley about scaling the walls of Pentos. But when the skies began to darken, they knew they should return.

They took a different route back to the keep, giving out more coppers and talking with more storeowners, letting more of the city see their king and his family.

They had dinner, as they always did, as a family, with Durran and Ned joining them in the royal solar, along with Ser Edryn. Much as her father had done, Jasper had taken to allowing one member of the court and council to dine with them in their private dinners, switching it so all may be heard. Durran and Jasper discussed the matters raised and resolved in court and by the council.

"Lord Scales is still refusing to pay the inheritance tax on his lands," Durran said, poking at his meat. "We've sent three ravens, but still nothing."

Jasper nodded, sipping at his water. "Well then, he's not the Lord Scales yet, but we'll have to see to that. If he hasn't answered three ravens, he won't answer four. Be my hand, take a force of men to his castle and order him to pay by force."

"And if he resists?" Durran asked.

"Then he's a traitor," Ned said. "Forfeit his lands if needs be, but I doubt he'll complain so much with a host outside his gates."

Jasper raised his glass to her nephew. "If you leave tomorrow I imagine that you'll be back within the week with all the inheritance funds that are owed, and a very sincere apology."

Durran nodded. "I'll start making preparations to leave tomorrow."

"If only I could go myself," Jasper muttered, shaking his head darkly.

"We all know you can't do that, father," Cat said, touching his arm gently. "You need to be here." She smiled at him.

"Why do you have to remind me?" He asked his daughter. "Maybe you can take this little leech of my hands for a week, or I may have to find her a husband," he added to Durran.

"Father!" She gasped. "I'm not a leech."

"Really? I can't seem to get you off my arm."

She slapped him gently. "Maybe I should put some actual leeches on you."

"Please," Jasper replied with a small smile for his daughter, "they're horribly slimy things, you couldn't stomach them." She scowled as the table chuckled at the antics.

"I could," Arya spoke up.

"See," Cat grinned, "I have mother on my side."

"Women," Jasper grunted, taking up his glass of water. "Well, it seems I'm outnumbered. Fine then, you can stay Cat, but no leeches."

"Okay father," she smiled as the table laughed. Jasper took a swig of water and coughed as it went down the wrong way. She patted him on the back as he doubled over coughing into his hand. His coughs became hacking rasps as his back shook violently.

When he pulled away, she saw the blood in his hand.

Jasper looked up in horror as strings of blood hung from his lips and he coughed again and again, blood speckling the tablecloth and landing on his food.

"Father!" Durran sprung to his feet and raced around the table.

She couldn't move, she was frozen as her husband pushed off the table, still coughing, but fell back, hand flailing at the table, trying to catch it, before he fell back to the ground, blood spilling from between his lips and crying out in pain. "Father!

"Jasper!"


	28. The Passing of Jasper 2

"Jasper!" She fell to her knees before him as he hacked up more blood, a bloody pool forming below him. With a crash the door opened and the two Kingsguard who'd been stationed outside burst in, swords drawn.

"Father!" Cat pleaded, cradling his head on her lap as he continued to splutter, shaking in her arms. "Mother what's happening?!"

"I-I don't know?" She whispered.

"Is it poison?" Ned asked, looking over Cat's shoulder.

 _No, who could do that, in the Red Keep itself._ If it was, they had to be sure. "You," she said, pointing at one of the Kingsguard. "Go and fetch the other white swords, at once, and you, keep anyone from getting close to the door."

They nodded at once and rushed from the room. "Ned, I need you to go and get the Grand Maester, go fetch him then come back at once, tell no one why until you reach Gerold. Go!" Ned nodded and sprinted from the room.

"I... I..." Jasper murmured through rasping breaths and deep coughs. Blood was starting to trickle from his nose, flowing into his mouth.

"Father! Father speak to me!" Cat whispered, pleading, tears clouding her eyes.

"I... I see red," he whispered. They all recoiled in horror as tears of blood began to leak from his eyes, streaking down his face. His red eye, so dim lately was roaring bright red. "Hot... so hot..."

"Get some water hurry!" Cat screamed.

"Not from the table," she cut across. "If this was poison, it could well be in the drink." Ser Edryn paused as he reached out for a glass. "Jasper. Jasper can you hear me?"

"I... I can," he replied, moaning with pain.

"Keep listening, we're all here, you're going to be alright." She clutched his hand tightly and felt him squeeze it tightly.

"What could have done this?" Durran asked. He and Robert stood immobile by the door.

There was more to do, they had to keep this contained, but if this was an attack. "Robert, go fetch your aunt, now. Laena, take your children to bed, make sure they are safe, don't leave until Durran comes to fetch you.

The silver haired bride of her son was pale as a ghost. But she nodded. "Of course, your grace," she replied, bowing. She squeezed Durran's hand tightly before reaching for her two black haired sons. "Come, Stannis, come Boremund, to bed, now." The children, wide eyed and fearful obeyed at once, following their mother.

Soon after she had left the door burst open again and the Kingsguard entered, all alert and armed, though without their armour. "Seven Hells," Balon swore at the sight of the king. "What happened here?"

"We don't know," Durran said quickly. "We were talking, eating, then he just," he gestured at his father.

"Move!" Came another voice and the Grand Maester swept into the room, followed by Ned. He rushed over, eyes alert and fearful. "Your Grace," he said as he lowered to his king.

"What is this?" Cat asked in a croaky whisper, her face streaked with tears.

"Maester, is this poison?"

He shook his head. "No, Your Grace, this is no poison. This is... something else. We need to get him to his bed, I can't treat him here."

"Brother!" Myrcella broke in. Her good-sister was past the great beauty of her youth, but her hair still shone and her eyes sparkled and she carried herself with as much grace as anyone. Jasper had called her to the capital less than a year ago to help tend to him when Cat had her lessons to attend to. "What happened to him?"

"We don't know," the Maester said. "But we need to get him to a bed so we can see this properly."

"It's not poison?"

The Grand Maester shook his head. "No. Not any that I know of."

Myrcella nodded, looking into her brother's half-lidded eyes. "I agree then, to his bed."

"The Castle isn't asleep yet," Durran pointed out. People will notice if we carry the king covered in his own blood to his chambers."

"What do you suggest we do then, Durran?" Robert asked.

Durran turned to the Kingsguard. "Ser Balon, sequester the Keep. Get everyone to their rooms then lock it down, make sure that the path from here to the Royal Chambers is clear, no one can see this."

"At once." The Kingsguard rushed from the room to seal the palace and keep everyone away.

"Robert, Edryn, with me, get him on the table."

"The table won't serve while we look at him, my prince," the Grand Maester said.

"Perhaps not, but we can use it to carry him more easily, without jolting him every step of the way. Cat, you have to let go now."

Cat shook her head. "No," she all but wailed.

"Come here Cat," Arya said, prising her daughter from her father and pulling her away softly.

Durran took her place and looped his hands under Jasper's arms. "Ready?" Robert and Edryn nodded and took a leg each. "Three, two one!" They heaved Jasper up. Myrcella swept an arm along the table, scattering tablewear to the floor, spilling wine, water and food all over the floor, leaving room for her husband as they lay him down. Robert tore off his cloak and stuffed it under Jasper's head.

Bells rang out throughout the keep, and no doubt men at arms of the order would start manning the walls and corridors, keeping them clear. Servants would be rushing to their quarters and guests to their chambers.

"We can't wait too much longer," Myrcella said as she and the Grand Maester leant over Jasper. "There's little we can do for him here, he needs a bed."

"And you'll need your things no doubt," Arya added. Robert, Durran, you'll be able to carry the table. Grand Maester, take Edryn and get what you need, Cat, go with Myrcella."

"No!" She cried. "I'm not leaving father!"

She slapped her daughter and seized her arms tightly. "Cat look at me. Look at me!" Her daughter sniffled and took her hand from her red cheek, looking at her with red eyes. "You can't help your father like this. You'd do anything for him, wouldn't you?" She nodded emphatically. "Then you need to go with your aunt, get whatever she needs to help your father. Can you do that?" She nodded again. "Good girl," she kissed the cheek she'd just slapped. "Now go!" Myrcella reached out and took Cat's hand tightly in her own, leading her as they rushed from the room.

She felt so helpless as she watched Jasper shake and moan in agony, clutching at the air. "What's happening?" Robert asked, his voice shaking.

Before anyone could answer the door burst open and Balon entered, red faced and panting. "All servants are in their quarters, and guests as well, the route is clear."

"Good," she said, relieved.

"Ser Marlon is waiting by the Royal Chambers, and there are two of the white swords outside it, the rest are seeing to the men at arms and keeping the keep locked down.

"Then we need to move him. Robert," Durran said, indicating the other end of the table.

Robert nodded and her sons hefted the table in their arms. "Go!" Durran ordered. Balon raced ahead, shoving open every door in their way. She kept up with the table, clutching Jasper's hand as they went. Durran and Robert were panting heavily as they hauled the table through the door, the two knights on watch stepping aside to let them through. She let Jasper go and approached Ser Marlon, standing patiently to one side.

"Your Grace," he bowed his head in respect. "What do you need of me at this time?"

"Only that the truth not emerge. It cannot be heard that the King's life is on the line until we know more. Make sure the garrison spread nothing and that no rumours reach the city or the guests in the keep."

"They'll hear nothing, your grace," he swore before sweeping off along the corridor.

She rushed into the bed chamber as Durran and Robert lifted their father onto the bed.

The Grand Maester arrived first. Ser Edryn carrying boxes of medical stuff that was beyond her understanding, and Myrcella followed, Cat's arms full as she followed on behind. "Your Grace," the Grand Maester said. "We need peace, and space. His grace needs it."

She nodded. "Balon, you stay and watch over the king, everyone else, we need to leave."

"No!" Cat, Robert and Durran cried out as one.

"Do as I say!" She snapped at them. "You cannot help your father like this, we must let Gerold and Myrcella save him, now come."

Robert looked like he was willing to fight it, but he conceded, taking Durran by the shoulder, guiding his elder brother from the room.

Cat was fixed to her spot, refusing to budge. "Come on Cat," she took her daughter's shoulder gently, but her inner wolf was roused and she lashed out.

"Never!" She snarled. "I'm staying with father."

"You can't Cat." Cat tried to resist again, but though she had a little wolf in her, Arya was born a Stark and she pulled Cat from the room and into the solar.

"No, father!" Cat screamed as Balon shut the doors in front of her. When she heard the lock click she let Cat go. Her daughter did what she wanted to do and rushed at the door, hammering at it, crying out for Jasper. She let her daughter vent and soon Cat slipped to the ground sobbing when the door didn't give way.

She gently brought Cat with her and sat down, her arm around her daughter's shoulder. Durran was stood by the empty fireplace, looking into the grate with a hard and haunted gaze. Robert was sat down opposite them, looking at the carpet like he was trying to burn a hole in it.

They sat in silence, hoping, praying, waiting for Myrcella and Gerold to emerge. As the sky turned from evening to night she lamely suggested that Durran light a fire, perhaps he never heard it over Cat's sobbing, but he did nothing even if he did.

"This is my fault," Cat croaked as she finally got control of her sobs.

"What are you talking about?" She asked.

"He was laughing first. I made him laugh. I jus-just wanted him to smile. I just."

"Sh sh sh" she hushed her daughter. "You are not to blame for this. Don't ever think that Cat. You have soothed your father's pain greatly, you did not cause this." She kissed the top of Cat's head and they returned to silence.

Eventually the door opened and a haggard Myrcella came out. "What news?" Durran asked before she could.

"Your father lives, and we think we've been able to stem the worst of it but..."

"But what?" She demanded.

"He is weak. His heart is flutters and his responses are weak. He is dying. Not in the way he has been these last few years. He will not be getting up from that bed."

"No," Cat whispered.

"I'm sorry," she said, and Arya saw that she too was crying. "My brother is stubborn, he may have a few weeks left, but that is all. The King is dying, and now there is nothing we can do to stop it."


	29. The Passing of Jasper 3

"As soon as we knew the six fastest ships to Andalos," she told Jasper who was propped up on four pillows, arms lying feebly by his side and breathing heavily as he spoke to them.

"Good," he said with relief. "I'm not dying yet, not until... until... Arlan."

"He'll be here father!" Cat swore. Their daughter was knelt next to the bed, holding one of his hands tightly with both of hers.

Jasper nodded. "We need to make preparations. Unlike my father, I know my death is coming, and in many ways that is a gift. The succession must be smooth, that is essential, but people must now be made aware."

"Is that wise, father?" Durran asked. "Let it be known that you are dying. Discontented nobles may try to take advantage."

"They may," he agreed giving a small cough, "but most will come for the funeral, not out of respect for me, but to press themselves closer to you. We will use this opportunity. After I am dead, have a grand coronation and take their oaths of fealty. Let them leave here not with the knowledge that the king is dead, but that the king has risen."

"I... I'll make preparations at once, father," Durran replied, his voice stiff and on the verge of breaking.

Jasper nodded. "You'll do me proud, Durran, I know it." He turned to her. "Arya, you must send out the letters to the Lords Paramount, they will listen should the words come in your hand. Send them now, when you leave this room, bid them hurry for the funeral and coronation of Durran.

She nodded. "I will, Jasper, I promise."

He gave a hacking cough and Myrcella stepped forwards. "Please, his grace needs rest. You are stubborn brother, but if you stress yourself you won't last the weeks until your son arrives."

He clearly wanted to object, but backed down, incapable of resisting now. "Very well, leave me."

"Not me, father," Cat said, squeezing his hand tightly. "I won't."

He squeezed back. "No... I wouldn't expect you to, Cat."

"We'll come when we have news," she promised, leaning over and kissing him softly.

"And I'll stay alive to hear it," he promised in return.

()()()

"How are they handling this?" Arya asked Laena as they watched over her sons. Her daughter in law was dressed in a deep purple dress that matched her eyes and contrasted well with her hair.

Laena smiled as Stannis was playing king while Ormund watched on and giggled with the governess, Laena's bastard sister Leonette. Leonette had been welcomed into Laena's household, but Oswell, her brother had never gotten over his bastard nature. He had gone to Essos and taken up in the Household of Lord Bryan Lettan hoping to make a name for himself, where he'd fallen in battle with the Dothraki. "Well aside from the fact that they haven't seen their grandfather since he was coughing blood last night, their father is suddenly too busy to talk to them and the castle is a hive of activity... they don't really know what's happening, I think the distractions help them."

"It will all change for them soon. Soon they'll be princes, Stannis will be the heir to the throne and Boremund a prince of the blood," the gods knew the change that Jasper had gone through when he became a king. Hopefully they would be able to handle it.

"And I'll be the Queen," Laena whispered.

She looked at her good daughter. Despite having known it her whole life, she looked thoroughly unready, eye's full of fear and her face set with doubt. She reached out. "Laena, you've been helping me for years. You are beautiful, you know your duties and you accept them. When I began I was younger than you and had _no_ idea what I was doing. It hardly crossed my mind when Jasper came to me, begging me to marry him, promising me everything I had ever wanted to make me say yes. Now hear I am. I managed. I gave him three sons and a daughter, I don't think I did a bad job raising them and there have been worse Queens. The one before me for starters. You will be as much better than me as she was worse. If not more. I have faith in you and... if you need help, Durran will still be here, you can confide in him and ask what he needs of you. Ultimately, if you are there for him, as a shoulder to cry on, someone to confide it and support him, you will be a good queen."

Laena looked at her and smiled. "Thank you," she whispered. Her eyes teared up. "I can't believe he's really going. He was always... always there, always strong, but he always treated me well, even after Durran's rebellion, but now he's... he's."

"Hush now," she said to Laena, pulling her in for a hug, hiding her own tears beside her. "It's okay. It's okay..."

They pulled apart and dried their eyes. "I saw the candles last night," Laena said. "From out of my window. The city mourns for their king, and he isn't even dead yet."

She nodded. She had seen them as well. The announcement had been made in every square in the city the same day she had written to the Lords Paramount. Whatever the lords felt, the people of the city remembered Jasper as the man who had saved them, first from Renly Baratheon, then from the Red Men. Then he'd flooded the city with wealth and peace, reformed the gold cloaks and brought it security. They were always on his side and would mourn him, and that was why they stood out at night with candles lit in the night like a field of golden jewels in the darkness. Word had likely reached every town in Westeros by now and be filtering down to the villages. Full of nameless peasants who wouldn't care less that the best king in living memory was fading away, who cared only for fields and crops and _cows._ "We should go to them soon, I suspect that the funds are ready."

Laena nodded. "Sister," she called. "Can you watch over my sons?"

Leonette smiled. "Of course."

"Shall we go then?"

Arya nodded. "Yes." They were to give out charities of food and coin to the people of the city, coin for their prayers and support in this dark time and food as a gift and proof of the king's generosity at the end. She didn't see the point, but Jasper was quite insistent, and who was she to disobey him on the last days of his life.

()()()

The first week passed. She couldn't share her husband's bed any longer and, in her own sorrow, she had invited Cat to come and stay with her at night. Her daughter had taken her offer. She was the most hard hit. She had worshiped her father, loved him more than she had her, she had no doubt, and Jasper had always doted on her. She had been born when the Kingdoms were settled. By then, Arlan and Durran were young boys, Durran already being schooled in arms. There were still matters to settle after Robert's birth, but he had been there for the announcement of her pregnancy with Cat all the way to the birth. He always doted on her as well. He felt that his sons had to be toughened, they had to be warriors, and Joffrey had been proof of what a prince could be if he wasn't raised well. But Cat was a princess. She would be married off to another, not to be trained in hardship, so he could dote on her as he couldn't with his sons. And he had hoped that after Cat's birth he could rule Westeros in peace, he saw her as hope of that, never wanting her to lose her innocence, even when he had to go and do battle with his son.

The lords of the Crownlands started arriving to pay their condolences to the king and offer their love and support to the family. These were some of the most loyal of lords of the King, men who owed oaths directly to him and saw him most often. Half way through the second week the first of the Lords Paramount arrived. The eldest of them all, Lord Edmure, his auburn hair fading to grey, a thick beard on his jaw and several lords of the Riverlands at his back.

"Your Grace," he greeted her warmly.

"Uncle," she replied, smiling as she embraced him tightly. "I'm so glad you've made it."

"My own niece wrote to me," he replied, smiling at her. "Family, Duty, Honour. I couldn't refuse if I wanted. I know the king and I have had differences. But he is a good man, and I intend to pay my respects. As do my lords."

"I'm glad," she replied. "He is resting now, but he is not long for this world."

"We shall stay," Edmure promised. "And I would like to see him, if that is possible."

She nodded. "I can make it so, but if you wish to discuss a matter of politics, Durran is-"

"This is not a matter of state," he said. "I simply wish to pay my respects in person."

"Of course. Please, join me uncle, we can see if he is available now."

They came one after the other. Lord Ormund was first with the loyal stormlords at his back. Jaspers cousin racing across the Rush to pay his respects. Lord Edric raced in on horseback, though few Dornish lords came with him. Considering what Jasper had done to them, she wasn't surprised, but Edric came sincerely to pay his respects to his king. Shireen brought what seemed like half the Reach with her, every lord and their son with their lady and her children to pay their respects to King Jasper, or get close to Prince Durran. Shireen hadn't waited to be escorted before charging to meet her cousin, emerging from his bedchamber with tears on her cheeks. Then came her sister and her husband. Lord Arryn sailed in with the Lords of the Vale and, while they were with her husband, she and Sansa talked in her solar.

"I'm so sorry Arya," Sansa said. Her red hair was flecked with grey now and the lines of age were showing on her face.

"Thank you," she replied, trying to smile encouragingly, but it hurt too much. "I... we've known it was coming but... but we... I..."

Sansa drew her into a soft hug and Arya pressed her face into her sister's shoulder. It was never meant to be like this, Sansa was the weepy one, not her, she didn't shed tears like this. "You were the first in so many ways Arya," Sansa said. "First of all of us to be married, first to have a child and now you are the first to become a widow."

"It was never meant to happen," she whispered. "You were the one who was supposed to be the Queen. Have the husband and the children."

"I do," Sansa replied, "apart from that last bit. But then again, if I'd married Jasper after he became king... what would have become of us? How could I be happy with a man who would rather lay with my sister, and how could you be happy when the man who loved and accepted you was with your sister. Arya, do not dwell on the dark times to come when Jasper leaves us. Focus on the good and the happiness. Every time I am reminded of my captivity with the Lannisters, I think of my children, or our own childhood, or some of the personal time I have spent with Harry. In another life you could have let darkness consume you, and I would shudder at it. Don't, you deserve so much more."

She nodded into her sister's shoulder but said nothing. She didn't want to think of her life if Jasper hadn't been there. Who would have helped her through her father's death, who would have let her be what she wanted to be, what would have become of her, she didn't know, but it was no doubt worse than what she had.

Lord Tommen came next at the head of the Westermen to pay his respects to her husband, his brother. He came with the ironmen under Lord Blacktyde who, like Edric, came without most of his vassals. The only one left was Robb, her brother. He would come, wouldn't he? He wouldn't leave her now?"

He didn't. He sailed in several days later, with his wife and their mother, who, though old still held herself tall and proud. "Brother," she raced to embrace him, all dignity forgotten as he engulfed her in a fierce hug. "You came."

"You didn't think otherwise did you?" Robb asked. "Of course I came when my sister asked." He looked at her seriously. "Is it true? Is he really dying."

She bit her lip and nodded. "He is, we don't know if he has long. Myrcella says he's only alive because he refuses to die right now."

"That sounds just like him," Robb said with a wistful smile.

"It does," Lady Wynafryd said. "How is Ned taking the news?"

"He's been with Durran most of the time, helping him come to terms with it."

"That sounds like my grandson," her mother said, pulling her into a hug. "You look well, my sweet girl."

"I'm not," she whispered back.

Her mother nodded. "I understand. We'll talk later, I promise."

"Thank you," she whispered. Her mother was the only person who'd gone through this that she knew of.

When Robb went to see Jasper, she went with them. Her brother and her husband hadn't had the relationship of their fathers for a long time, not since before the war. They had to make their peace with each other, here at the end.

Jasper was asleep when they came to him, chest rising and falling, his arms resting on his stomach. The left side of his face was still damp from when it had last been doused with cold water. She dismissed Myrcella and the Grand Maester, this would be between them and no others, and shook Jasper awake.

He groaned as he cracked his eyes open. "Arya," he whispered, smiling at her. "And Robb... you came... I'm glad."

"I owed you enough to be here at the end," he said, kneeling at Jasper's side. "Whatever our animosity... we were friends once."

"I remember," Jasper replied. "Another time, a better one, before everything happened."

"I remember too," Robb said in a voice as light as the breeze.

Jasper looked at her. "Arya... Robb and I have things to discuss alone."

"I understand," she said, stepping back. She wanted to be there, but the two of them did have their issues to sort out.

They spoke for at least an hour before Robb emerged from the room. "How was it?" She asked at once.

He looked at her for a few moments. "We are both tired of the frost between us," he said softly. "We don't agree with each other, I do not condone what he did, and he doesn't believe that it was wrong. But these are his last moments, our last with each other, and we do not wish to spend them feuding with each other. You deserve more than that, as do our children."

She sighed in relief. "Good," she said. "I'm glad. The past is behind you."

"Where it will stay," Robb nodded. "Where it should be."

The final arrival came two days after Robb.

She was in the courtyard, talking with faceless lords who were inquiring after her son when she heard the horsehooves clatter into the keep.

"Mother!" She spun. Arlan had come, dressed in silver and gold, a cloak fastened at his throat with a wolf brooch. He dismounted with his escort and Lord Devan who'd accompanied him. "Is it true?" He asked, fearful.

She nodded.

Arlan swept her into his arms, crushing her in a tight hug. "I-I came as soon as I heard. Is there still time, is father-"

"He lives still," she assured him. "He's been waiting for you."

He released her and stepped back running his hands through his hair. "I... I feared, we both did."

"His Grace yet lives?" Devan asked. Jasper's former squire stood tall in his cloak and tunic. "I was at Pentos when we heard the news. So I came with. I owe him much and I hoped to see him once more, to thank him for everything."

"I'll take you to him now," Arya said, anything to escape the insipid nobles who couldn't wait for Jasper to finally die, for whom every day he still lived was an insult.

Jasper spoke with Devan first, saying that he would speak with his family the next day. But before that there was something of import he had to do, and summoned his family, Shireen, Ormund, Robb and Edric to his chambers.

The Grand Maester was sat beside his bed with paper and ink ready. "What's happening, father?" Durran asked.

"His Grace has summoned you here to bear witness to his will," the Grand Maester said.

Jasper was propped up on several pillows so he was sitting up and looking at them all. Somehow he was still able to look strong and powerful. His left eye was only burning with slight embers now, darkening as he reached the end of his life. "I have," he confirmed. "This must be done, and then I must rest once more." He looked at the Grand Maester and nodded.

"Upon my death, my realms shall be split. Durran shall inherit the crown of Westeros and the royal demesnes here, along with all duties and responsibilities that go with it. Arlan shall receive Andalos and the duties and responsibilities there. Along with Andalos, the Sword Blackfyre is to be given to him as the ancestral blade of the royal family of Andalos. He may maintain or reforge and rename it as he wishes. Any debts incurred by the Throne shall remain in Westeros, as shall any debts owed directly to it, debts owed to me but paid by or to Pentos shall revert to Andalos. For Robert, I leave fifty thousand gold dragons and custody of the lady Bellmore to raise as his own, to arrange her education and marriage. To my wife, I leave to her the castles of Rubyhold and Castellon until the day of her death, that she may have some income of her own, after which they shall return to the Crown of Westeros. I leave my personal items to be distributed amongst my children, as overseen by the executors of this will. To my daughter Catelyn I leave ten thousand gold dragons to do with as she will, and be her property, no others having claim to it until the day she marries, and this money is not to be included in any dowry arrangements for her. It is my wish than any lands given as dowries for her hand be granted in jointure, should her husband predecease her then these lands and their incomes will remain hers until she dies, when they follow the male primogeniture succession laws of the rest of Westeros. However, that is merely a wish, not a commandment. I leave the same sum to my illegitimate daughter Cassanna Flowers, and hope that she servees her brother as well as she has me. For my grandson Stannis, I leave my first sword, kept in the armoury, that he may learn how to fight with it. To my second Grandson Ormund, I leave my childhood signet ring, that he might have something to remember me by. To my good daughter, I leave the silver goblets with which her father, Aegon the Last Targaryen and I drank to peace at the end of the war, in the hope that the last peace between Baratheon and Targaryen shall remain, and no more blood shall flow because of it. I also leave, to each family in the city of King's Landing, one silver stag, as thanks for their prayers and as my final gift to them as king."

He paused and looked up at her, Robb and Edric. "In order to see the commandments of my will carried forward, I name Lord Paramount Edric Dayne, Lord Paramount Robb Stark, Warden of the North, Lord Paramount Ormund Baratheon, Warden of the South, Lady Paramount Shireen Baratheon of the Reach, and my own lady wife, Arya Stark as the executors. In them I trust the responsibility of seeing my will carried forward in peace or strife. I ask now that they, and my sons, now affix their seals to my will, as witnesses to my final commandments."

He beckoned weakly and the Grand Maester took them each over to a table. On it were waxes of various colours, ready to be poured into buttons and stamped with the seals of the executors. One by one, they stamped their seals and attached them to pieces of leather, ready to be sewn onto the final document. They watched as the Grand Maester sewed them onto the will with thin silver thread. "It is done, Your Grace," the Grand Maester said when he was done sewing on Robert's stag and sword seal. "Your will is prepared."

Her husband nodded weakly, his eyes struggling to remain open. "I entrust it to my wife, who shall be the first of the executors, to hold onto it until my death. She will watch over it."

"I shall, Jasper, I promise," she whispered, refusing to let her voice crack in such company. The Grand Maester rolled the large parchment up and tied it with a thick leather cord.

Jasper weakly pressed his own seal into golden wax to keep it sealed until it needed to be broken. She took hold of the will, holding it as gently as a newborn. "Now leave me," Jasper said wearily, his voice tailing off. "I am tired, I must... must rest."

"Father," Arlan's voice was shaking like a stick house in a storm. "You said you had things to say... say to us."

"I do," Jasper said as the Grand Maester took his pillows out from behind his head, allowing him to lay back. "But tomorrow, for now... must rest."

"Father."

"Fear not, my son," he said softly. "I will not die before I have spoken to you. I refuse to die until I have said my final words. Tomorrow."

"I must ask you to leave now," the Grand Maester said. "His Grace must rest."

"Come," she said to Arlan, taking him softly by the shoulder. "Your father will be here tomorrow, he has promised.

They left the king to his sleep, would it be his final sleep before he died. Would he even wake? Despite what she'd said, she wasn't sure. No, he couldn't die, they still had things to talk about. One last conversation, Jasper may have done dark things, but surely the gods, any gods, all gods could grant him that. Just one more talk... just one.


	30. The Passing of Jasper 4

Jasper called them to him the next day. The whole court was abuzz with rumours and debate over when Jasper would die. It was widely known by now that he had dictated his final will and much discussion reigned over it's contents. Arya had only been relieved when she heard that he had called them to him. No interruptions, just her and the children, though many lords and their families were with them, waiting in the solar, eager to be the first to hear the news of the King's death. Someone came racing down the corridor and they all looked up in surprise at the final arrival at their father's door. "Am I... too late?" Cassanna asked, panting heavily, sweat dripping from her face and plastering her hair to her brow.

"Cass," Durran said, rushing over.

"I heard, as fast as I could I was in the West and I raced home and I-"

Durran cut her off by sweeping her into his arms. Cass clutched at his back desperately, and Arya heard her breakdown into sobs.

Her son took his bastard sister to the side as they waited outside to be called in by Ser Balon; she held Cat's hand tightly, her daughter's grip could crush stone it was so tight, but she wouldn't let go. The door opened and Ser Balon emerged with the High Septon in tow, his crystal crown upon his head and a heavy tome under his arm. He bowed to her. "His Grace has given his final confession, he wishes to see you all now."

This was it then. The end. They entered to find Jasper was already dressed as a corpse, in flowing robes of black and gold, his crown on his head, everything neat and perfect. There would be no wait. He would be taken to the Sept as soon as he breathed his last.

His eyes were closed, but his chest still rose and fell softly, life still beat within him, kept in by his sheer will alone. They sat around his bed on the chairs set out for them. She reached out and gently took one of his cold hands. His eyes cracked open. "Hello," he whispered with a smile. "You've come. And Cass as well. I was scared, scared you wouldn't make it."

"I came as fast as I could," Cass replied, wiping a tear from her cheek fiercely.

"Father's still here," Durran said, his face set like stone, his fingers clutched tightly. "You made it Cass."

"I am," his father replied. "I dreamt last night. I dreamt of the time I sat on the throne for the first time. So long ago... I wasn't even eighteen."

"I remember it," she said softly. "You looked the most like a king of anyone I'd ever seen there."

He smiled again. "Thank you. Thank you all... for being here at the end." He took a breath. "I don't know anyone who knew their death was coming in this way. It snuck up on them in battle or illness, but here I am, the Stranger is just waiting for me to accept him, and then I shall go from here. At last."

"Father," Robert said. "You said you had things to say to us."

Jasper nodded. "I do. To each and every one of you. Durran, Arlan." He beckoned his eldest sons to him. "I will not lie to you, not here, if a man cannot be honest on his deathbed, when can he. I had concerns. Even from when I made the decision to split the kingdoms, I had concerns about whether you would be ready for the challenge... able to rise to it. I was wrong. I came to the throne when I was younger than both of you are now, and I managed. If I have concerns, they are not about the security and future of the Kingdoms. I'm sorry it took me so long to see that you are more than I could ever have hoped you would be. Durran, we may disagree about the future of the realms, about how to rule. But I now see... I have faith that you will succeed in your dreams and vision. One day, you may well be dying in this very bed. I hope you fulfil your vision... before that time." Durran choked and squeezed his eyes shut, wiping at the tears. "No tears, Durran, do not pity me. You must be strong now."

He turned to Arlan on the other side of the bed. "And you, Arlan. You were always my most dutiful son, ever at my side to offer me your support. Now a crown will rest on your head and you will rule a realm across the sea. It will change you, but I believe in you and your skills, and believe that you will manage. I hope that you and Durran work together as brothers, you have always been close, even in your darkest days, closer than I ever was to any of my brothers. I am glad of that, I am glad of all of it. You will make me proud. I know it. I have always known it."

Arlan didn't try to hide his tears, he let them fall. "Thank you, father."

"Robert," Jasper called on his third son. "I was right to name you for my father. He would have liked you, for you are more like him than I ever was. In all the right ways. You are a warrior, I wonder if I could have beaten you now were I in my prime. But I was not there for you as I should have been. I should have showed more attention to you, but I thought I had to show more to my eldest sons who would inherit my crown. I was wrong on both accounts, they didn't need more attention from me, and you did. I know you are my only son not to receive a crown of your own. But I left you enough funds to start a war chest if you wish it, and many will pay for your ward's marriage. If you still wish to pursue your crown, I hope you'll have the resources to do it. I cannot help you anymore. I'm sorry."

"Don't be father," Robert said. "I have ever been my own man, and that is only possible by the free reign you gave me. It took me a while, but I saw that too." He took his father's hand and squeezed it. "I will make you proud, and I will survive."

"I know you will, Robert. I know it." Robert stepped back to join his brothers.

"Cat," he beckoned forth his daughter. Cat raced to the bed, almost tripping and skidding to his side, clutching his hand tightly.

"Father," she whispered.

"Cat," he repeated, raising his hand to her delicate cheek and kissing it softly. "I have lived a bad life. I don't know what I have done to deserve such a daughter as you. But I thank the gods a thousand fold for it. You were the perfect daughter, beautiful, a bright star in my life, kind, sweet, and better to me than I deserved." She sniffed as tears began to streak her make up on her face. "Of all my children, you will likely suffer most from my passing, you have ever doted on me as I have on you, and I never took the time to ready you for the day when I would no longer be here. That was my failure, I never wanted to see you in pain, but for that, I let you feel it much more now. I'm sorry."

"Don't ever be sorry father," she reached up and hugged him tightly. "I love you, I would never wish for another father, or for you to have treated me differently. For all the good times you have given me, I will gladly accept the empty hole that comes after it." She kissed him softly on the forehead and cheeks and softly on the lips.

"My sweet Cat," he said, smiling weakly at her. "You have the rest of your life ahead of you. Mourn for me, but do not let it consume you. One day you will have a husband, your brothers will need it of you. And children shall come after it. Let them fill your life and heart again, and your mother and brothers will still be here. Please Cat. I have loved you as a child full of life, do not fall so far when I am gone. Promise me that you will find happiness again."

"I- I promise father," she swore. "I will live a long and happy life... just for you."

"Thank you, Cat" he said. He didn't send her away as he beckoned his last child to him. "Cass. My firstborn. I tried to find a place in my life for you. There were things I could never do for you, things that I wish I had. I didn't try to help your mother after your brother died, and so you never knew her. But I am glad for what you have become. I can list on two fingers the number of people who have given me more loyal and leal service than you, and they are both at peace now. I would go to my death with no fear if you were to continue to watch over your brothers."

"Of course, father," Cass said, giving him a quick hug. "I'll keep them safe."

Jasper nodded. "Just do not let this life of shadow and darkness consume you so utterly that you lose yourself."

"I have lived in shadow for half my life father. They are my friend and my nourishment. They are part of me, they cannot consume me."

He nodded. "You always were self assured, from the moment you took your first steps as a babe. I will not doubt you now. I owe you better than that. Live well, Cass."

"I will, father."

They were all done, all but her. "Children. I am sorry, but my words for your mother, they are for her ears alone. I am sorry I must still command from my deathbed, but..."

"You cannot command what is offered freely, father," Arlan said, stepping back. "We'll leave you the room."

They filed out. Cat was the last of them, looking back with shining blue eyes. But she also left and the door was shut behind them. It was just the two of them now. She pulled her chair up close to him.

"Arya... help me take... this crown off," he whispered. "It's so, uncomfortable here." She nodded and reached over, sliding the circlet off his head. He sighed as he rested on the pillow. "They are strong," he almost mused, looking at the door.

She nodded, a breathy chuckle coming unbidden from her chest. "They are. They'll be fine without us."

"Us?" Jasper asked.

She nodded. "Robb has invited me to Winterfell for some time. Without you here, I was thinking of taking him up on it, after things have been settled here." Most wouldn't talk so candidly on a deathbed, she knew, but she and Jasper had long come to terms with the fact that she would be in this world without him.

"Forever?"

She shook her head. "No, Winterfell is where I was born, but it's not my home. Not any longer. I have been a Baratheon longer than I've been a Stark. But I think I'd need some time away from it all when... when you're..." she didn't say the words. She couldn't. Not yet.

"I understand," he replied. "Maybe take Cat with you, let her walk those grounds. Has she ever been to Winterfell?"

"Once, when she was four," she replied. "I doubt she remembers it."

"Ah yes," he replied. He hadn't gone on that trip, it had been the first time Cat had been separated from her father for so long. She had bawled for much of the trip, although she did enjoy the snows there. "Will you be okay?"

"Of course I will," she told him. "I'm not so weak as that. I'll miss you, always, but this will not end me."

"Good. I'd hate to have to change my opinion of you here at the end."

She couldn't stop the laugh that came from her mouth. There was a moment of peaceful silence before her husband spoke again. "Is it shameful of me?"

"Is what shameful of you?" She asked.

"Arlan. I have never said it to anyone, not even you. But Arlan... he was always my favourite."

That stunned her. She'd never thought of him having any real preferences amongst his children. But if she had thought that, she'd have sworn that it would have been Cat who was his favourite, the one he doted on most. "Not Cat?" She asked.

"No," he replied. "I love Cat the most, but Arlan, he was always my favourite. Birthed from the victory in the war. Durran, Durran I always had a duty to remain a little distant from him. But he is the one I am most proud of and Robert. Robert is the one I envy. He will know the joys of being a third prince as I never knew being a second. Everything that he becomes he will become because he chooses it for himself, and makes it for himself. And Cass. Cass is the one I failed the most. I encouraged her entry into the shadows because it was better for my reign if my bastard wasn't hanging around court." He shook his head. "What does it make me when my favourite child is the one who was the most obedient?"

"It doesn't make you anything," she assured him. "Just a man with a preference."

He lay back, relaxing a little at her words. "I dreamt of something else last night." He whispered. "Back on the riverbank, on the Trident, after I leapt in to save you, that day, the day that our fathers bound us together."

"I'm glad we were," she replied.

"Me too," he said. "But there were promises. Promises I was never able to keep when I asked you to marry me. I'm sorry for that."

"Don't be. This life with you has been of greater value than any I could have had elsewhere."

"Thank you," he replied, his breathing becoming heavy and hard and his voice filled with urgent pleading. "Please, remember... remember me well."

"I'll remember you as you are. My good husband, as my childrens' good father and as the man I love."

He nodded. "Thank... you..."

"Jasper?" His breathing was getting harder.

"Everything... it's all going dark, Arya!"

She leapt up and pressed her forehead to his. "I'm here. Look at me."

He nodded, but his eyes were staring and blinking. He was struggling to see her. "I... I'm scared."

"Don't be," she replied, "I'm here, here at the end. I'm with you."

"I can't see, it's all going black. Arya! Put it on put it on put it on."

What was he saying? "Put what on, Jasper? Put what on?!"

"My... crown, put it on put it on putiton."

She looked frantically around and snatched up the circlet. Pulling up his head gently she slid the crown into his black hair flecked with silver.

"It's on, Jasper. It's on," she promised leaning down and kissing him soothingly. She felt his lips push back weakly, kissing her once more.

She pulled back and Jasper lay back, slightly calmed. "I die... I... die... a king." His body shook a few more times before falling still as the last red embers in his left eye sputtered and died, leaving a dark black pit behind.

She wouldn't cry. Jasper had loved her strength. She couldn't cry. But what would he know? His body lay before her, but he was gone. She buried her face in the bed sheets and let her choking tears break free and her tears stain the white cloth. She didn't know how long she was there, but when her tears were gone she raised her head and looked once more at her husband's body. It was more at rest than she'd seen him in a long while. She reached out and closed his two eyes, his right blue and white, his left the black pit, locking them behind the lids. She took up High Justice and rested it on his chest, lining it down the middle of his body, clasping his hands loosely over the handle.

She stood up. Even in death, he looked regal and powerful. He did indeed die a king. With one last look back at him, she made her way to the door of the bedchamber.

When she opened it the room beyond, hissing with whispers and rumours fell silent. Every lord and lady and noble son and child looked at her, wondering whether to curse that the king yet lived or bow in respect to the king's recent widow. Her children were at the end, gathered together, their friends nearby, and they all stood up and looked at her. Robert, Arlan and Durran were strong, keeping their emotions masked. Durran's silver hair glinted in the flame, Robert's beard quivered with his lips and Arlan's jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth might shatter. Cass was holding her daughter when she emerged, but Cat broke free and stepped forward, her face streaked with tears and makeup.

"Mother?" Durran asked, taking a tentative step.

She looked around at every curious, fearful and hopeful eye in the room. Cat realised before any of the others, dropping to her knees and shaking, burying her face in her hands. She wanted to rush over, to hold her daughter close and squeeze out the pain. But first she had to let them know, let the world know.

"The King is dead."


	31. The Passing of Jasper 5

The street was silent as the King's body came past. He was carried in procession by six of the Kingsguard, Lord Commander Balon Swann proceeding ahead of them. Men of the order lined the streets, black cloth tied around the tips of their spears, flapping lazily in the dead breeze. That was not the only black to be seen. Every banner of gold had been replaced with dark black cloth, weeping like inky tears from the windows and turrets of the keep and looking out from the city walls like empty eye sockets. But the eyes of the people were filled with soft tears as the King's body passed them, still and silent as stone, arms folded across his blade and his crown resting in his greying curls. Flowers littered the streets, fluttering down from the rooftops or being thrown over the shoulders of the guardsmen, the white steel boots of the Kingsguard crushing them into the stone cobbles. She and her children were first in line behind the Kingsguard, all garbed in mourner's black. She held Cat's hand fiercely, her daughter had her head bowed in a vain attempt to hide her tears. She'd been offered a veil, but had refused it. "My tears are genuine, I welcome the world to see my grief." Behind them came lords and their families in their dozens and hundreds, all in black, but not one in ten genuine in their grief.

When they reached the sept, Jasper was lain down on a great slab in the middle, atop a huge Baratheon banner which lay over the stone slab and slithered onto the floor like a golden waterfall. She stood at his side all day as lords filed past her like an endless army, wishing her well and falsely assuring her of their sympathies. They paid their due respects for the passing of an able king, but nothing more than that. "Most of the baseborn scum outside showed more sorrow at his passing," Durran hissed. Well of course they would. Jasper had saved the city, twice, brought the wealth of the east flowing in, more than any other in Westeros, they had reason to mourn him. But the lords... this was a man who had forced them into line, never been afraid to attaint those who stood against him or let them forever remember their defiance with a Royal Castle on their lands. Now he was gone they likely thought that the days of oppression were over.

He lay in state for three days before being interred in the earth. His sarcophagus was carved on top with his arms beneath a large crown. Where his feet lay was his full title. _Jasper of the House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of Westeros, King of Andalos, Lord of the Lands and Peoples and Protector of the Realm, who passed after twenty eight years of rule,_ carved as though written in the most elegant hand. Around the sides were scenes drawn from his life: His coming of age, being presented with High Justice; his battle and duel with Loras Tyrell; his capture of Renly; his coronation; their marriage; making peace with Robb; slaying the dragon; standing in judgement of the Red Priests, capturing Aegon at King's Landing; forming the Justiciars; helping his son back to his feet after the rebellion and finally his funeral procession through the streets of King's Landing and his burial. He would be the first King of Westeros to be buried in the Sept. The Targaryens had all given themselves to the fires in death, his father had chosen to be buried at Storm's End and Joffrey had been pulled up when the truth of his parentage had been revealed, to be buried unknown and uncared for in some small sept far from the city. When it had been built, the Targaryens had never foreseen that they would one day have to bury people in it. A tomb had been ordered for Joffrey but Jasper ordered it expanded upon into a great crypt, to be used by him and every king from then on. "When you are king, you are alone," he had said in one of his darker moments. "Best that I be buried alone. Others may join me... in time." She looked down at the dark, empty crypt. There was enough room here for another thirty monarchs, who would come, in time, when they had served their kingdom.

She was the last to be with him. The lords who had been invited to see the actual internment left the cold and the dark swiftly; her family stayed longer, but soon even Cat was escorted away by her half sister. She leant forward and pressed her hand to the stone. "Rest, my love. You've earned it." She kissed the cold, dry stone. She took the torch that was the only source of light in the room and, with one last glance at her love's final resting place, she made her way up the steps and back to the light.

()()()

Durran was crowned king four days later, while all the lords of the land were present to see it. All the joy that had been held back at Jasper's funeral was here in abundance. Every lord had a smile on their face as Durran knelt before the High Septon with his wife beside him. Both were anointed with holy oils and Durran swore his oaths before his crown, a different one to his father's, with antlers circling it for points it was far more visible, contrasting with his silver and black hair. The applause when they turned to the lords almost shook down the whole sept and a new king arose.

She stayed back for the most part, sitting and smiling at the coronation feast as lord came to congratulate her son on his new position. He sat the position like he'd been born to it... which of course he had and he needed no guidance from her.

Afterwards they all gathered again, once more, in what had been her and Jasper's chambers, but which were now Durran's. The servants had finished moving in their things before the coronation.

"It feels... empty," Durran said, sitting on the bed like it was made of thorns. "Without father here."

"He always did fill most rooms he was in," she replied, unable to smile at even the happiest memories. "Even before he became a king or a father." Cat squeezed her hand, gently. "Are the arrangements made?" She asked her sons. There was no use putting it off any longer.

Arlan nodded. "Durran and I have made our arrangements over the splitting of the Order and on which debts shall belong to Andalos and which to Westeros. I depart in two days, Andalos cannot be kingless for too long."

"I depart as well," Robert said as he leant against the wall by the fireplace. "The Bellmores are eager to be going, and as the guardian of the young lady, I should go there, at least for a while. The money father left me has been gathered and is ready."

"What about you mother?" Durran asked.

"Two days as well," she said. They would all be departing at once it seemed. "I'll be going with my brother to Winterfell for a while, Cat as well."

Durran nodded. "I understand. Just don't keep her up there for too long, already I've had six proposals for her."

"Six?" Cat croaked. She hadn't smiled since her father's death, despite his last wishes to her. But she would recover. She was her father's daughter, she was strong.

"Don't you worry, Cat," Durran assured her. "Only the best will be your husband."

Cat didn't reply and just looked at the ground. For so long her father had been the man in her life, she would take time to adjust to his absence.

"Do you know how long you'll be?" Robert asked, changing the topic.

She shook her head. "No, but we'll be back, don't worry. I may have been a Stark at birth, but this is my home now."

There was a knock at the door. She was about to call out for whoever it was to enter but caught herself, this wasn't her solar anymore. "Enter," Durran spoke in a King's voice.

Ned entered the room, the badge of the Hand gleaming on his chest. Durran's first act had been to name his friend as his Hand of the King. The first of a number of replacements he had made, a fresh generation for a fresh reign. "Durran, Lord Ambroise is insistent on meeting you."

"He can insist all he wants, I am the king and I am busy, I will see him when I am able."

Ned nodded. "Very well, and Aunt Arya, my father asks if you'll be ready to leave."

She nodded. "We will be, I promise."

Ned nodded. "I'll tell him. And Arlan, Lord Devan wishes to speak with you about the ships for your return."

Arlan nodded and got to his feet. "I'll go see him now."

"I'll go with you," Robert said. "I need to see the Bellmores as it is, I shouldn't put it off any longer."

As her two youngest sons left, Cat got to her feet. "I should go as well," she whispered. "I need to make sure I have all I need." Arya knew she was likely going to go and cry and think of her father. Eventually she would have to put a stop to it, but for now she would let her daughter have her grief.

When Cat closed the door behind her, it left Arya alone with Durran. "Are you going to be okay?" Arya asked. "I know this feels like we're all leaving at once but-"

"I'll be fine mother," Durran said, taking her hand softly. "I've been preparing ever since father told us that he was dying. What about you?"

"It's... strange. Like you I was prepared, or I thought I was, but him not being here feels... wrong."

"I know," Durran replied. "Sitting on that throne... I've done it before, but doing it as a King, it was strange."

"You're ready for it. Your father wasn't and he struggled at first. You've been prepared, you've been learning. You are ready, and you will be a fine king. I know it."

Durran nodded, steely self-assurance in his eye. "I'll do my best. I won't be like father, I can't, but I will try to be as good a ruler."

"Don't, my son," she said, drawing him into her arms. "Be better. It's all he ever wanted of you."

 _Extract from "A Vengeful and Just King" – Chapter 12 King Jasper's Legacy_

A true assessment of Jasper's career and reign requires a perspective that encompasses centuries, from the time of Aegon III to well after Jasper's death, if we are to see his full impact on Westeros. Since the time of Aegon III, successive monarchs had tried, with varying successes, to determine how to effectively rule such a large realm as Westeros as a single polity. The most successful prior to Jasper was the theory, as posited by Jym Harkwood, of "The King's Coalition" whereby monarchs, through strategic marriages bound or hamstrung the greater noble families to keep them effectively working together. However Jasper took a different view. Rather than relying on the support of the noble families, he increased the presence of royal power throughout the land, with fresh castles occupied by his loyalists, and the Justiciars who had the power to overrule the greater landed magnates. He expanded royal power to touch more and more aspects of life in Westeros, integrating the royal family not just in the bloodlines, but the very routine of Westerosi life.

Undoubtedly his vassals were not supportive of this, even those bound to him by marriage seem to have disapproved of his overbearing reign, but it would provide the basis of rule for the next two hundred and fifty years. Whether it would be like his son, and bringing the lords of the realm to King's Landing to have all their issues and concerns settled by royal input or like Boremund II who"s royal power was projected into the very heart of his vassals domains. All was based off Jasper's style of Kingship.

In the east, his conquest of Andalos helped shape the Free Cities into different states, with the links to the new Andalosi nobility and the fraternal lines of kings providing a corridor for the ideas of west and east to pass, helping to create distinct identities in them that would come to be more than simply what they were before.

But none of these long term changes that can be traced to Jasper's reign would have been apparent or mattered to anyone in the aftermath of Jasper's death. When he was buried some expressed shock, others sorrow, many a hidden pleasure at the passing of such an overbearing king. But they would soon realise that things would not, could not return to how they had been. Jasper had changed things and they would either accept and go along with them or be left behind.

But what was remarked upon was the lack of drama and danger in his passing. Seamlessly the line of kings continued and Durran took the throne of Westeros as Durran I. He was crowned without rebellion, murder, deposition or war, and only the very oldest in Westeros could have remembered such a thing happening before. Whatever upheavals had come from Jasper's reign, he had left behind a polity and political system effective enough to survive without him at the helm.

Thus King Jasper, who had fought in eight wars, come to the throne over the assassination of his brother and secured it with blood, fire and atrocity, died and peacefully, rule passed to his son. He is not the best known king, not as celebrated as Durran I or Stannis II, or as widely remembered as Boremund I or Stannis III, but he definitively changed the course of the history of both Westeros and the Free Cities. But we must never cast Jasper as the paragon of kingship, he must not become the model for politicians to follow, and we must not forget the lives that Jasper ruined, or the peoples he displaced and customs he destroyed, for to do so would be a disservice to humanity and to our own national soul.

 **A/N: So that's the end of it. I hope this was a satisfactory conclusion to Jasper's story and that you enjoyed reading it. Any final thoughts, comments or questions, feel free to review them. I won't be doing a Q &A like I did last time, but if you log in to review I'll reply to any PMs there are. I wish you well and thanks for sticking with me.**

 **Psykic Ninja**


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